Jaded
by Mistress-Samwise
Summary: Pre-LOTR: After his parents' death, Frodo turns into an out-of-control teen and his anger ends him up being shipped away to live with Bilbo. How will Frodo adjust to life in Hobbiton and will he ever be able to quell his anger? PG-13 for language.
1. Rage Risen

_Mistress-Samwise: 'Ello, 'ello! Yes, I'm back, after twenty-four hours. This chapter is, unfortunately, short. (Eek! Please don't kill me!) Unlike "Window To His Soul", this one wasn't finished before I published it. So I have to conserve. This one may take a while. Sorry. Just read this, okay? I'm a very busy, very burned-out high school student who has a tenuous hold on her sanity. Please, just bear with me._

VERY IMPORTANT!: Please note that the ages of various characters may be a little off. I apologize, but I'm so well adapted to the Athenian calendar (Athena's stories) of events, that it stuck with me.

_DISCLAIMER: If I owned LOTR, you could never guess the things I would do with those poor characters- Oh, wait… I already torture them. Anywho, I don't own 'um. Nope._

Jaded

---

            Frodo's sorrow quickly turned to anger as he heard one of the nameless voices speak to him.

            "Please don't cry, little one…"

            Rage enshrouded his mind almost instantly at those words. He didn't know which part he hated more; the one about him crying or the one about him being little.

            "You can't tell me what to do!" he screamed, tearing away from the person retraining him. Water streamed off of his dark brown hair, into his strikingly azure eyes, mingling with the tears on his face. "Get your damn hands off of me! Let go!"

            The other hobbits backed away at his sudden outburst. There he was, a teenage hobbit, soaking wet, literally seething with fury. He was weeping one moment and now he was furious, ready to strike out like an injured animal. 

            "How could you buggers understand?" His voice cracked. "I saw my own parents drown! And you expect me not to cry? I'm sixteen, god damn it, and I'll do whatever the bloody hell I want!"

            And with that, he marched off, leaving behind a very shocked group of hobbits. He went straight back to Brandy Hall, almost ripped the front door off, stepped into his room, and slammed the door shut, nearly knocking it off of its frame. His body, exhausted, slumped over onto his bed, and he laid there on the soggy covers, completely wordless.

---

_Mistress-Samwise: Already, off the bat, you know this is gonna be different. I wanted Frodo to be *mad* this time. Hey, wouldn't you? Not all "Poor widdle me!", more like "F*** you, man!" But just wait… Just wait… Fu fu fu fu fu! Next chapter scheduled for release: two days, maybe? Maybe less… I'll have to see…_


	2. Locked In

Mistress-Samwise: I was lying. I've added a new chapter today. So now you lazy buggers can read a little more. But I can't keep on adding chapters everyday. This story isn't finished yet, but it is in my mind. It's just that I have not the time (nor inspiration) to write a ton right now. I'm still reveling in the fact that I'm getting a C in algebra. HUZZAH! There is a god! XDDD Anywho, I've got some stupid little Greek architecture project to finish (it's due tomorrow), so I have to go off now. Tah.

P.S. GIVE ME REVIEWS OR I'LL EAT YOUR SOUL!!! Mwu hah hah hah hah hah fu fu fu fu fu!

---

For many hours, Frodo was locked in his room, of his own free will. Many times before had people tried to enter, but it fast proved worthless. He turned down food, company, and, most of all, words of sympathy. No one could get to him and they soon grew concerned. For being struck so hard, why wasn't he mourning like the rest of the smial?  For many long hours they had their ears pressed to his bedroom door, listening for any sounds, any signs of life. But there were none. All he did was lie there. His mind was blank and no matter how hard he tried to think of something, it faded away, slipping out of his grasp. He was stuck between nothingness and reality, unable to move, unable to think, unable to change.

         _…Why…?_

         Finally, he fell into an even emptier sleep, far from his sorrow and anger. He dreamt uncomfortably as he stumbled in his shrouded subconscious, shadow and light diminishing into a gray fog. Panicking, he whipped himself around, trying to find a direction to go, but it was all the same monotony. His confusion slowly melted into rage, and he clawed at the mist around him, shouting words of hate to ears that weren't there to hear it. His only answer was darkness, cold and numb, as it consumed his being and he was jostled into dreamless sleep again.

         He woke freezing and damp, his clothing clinging to his small frame. Against his will, a loud sneeze escaped out of his mouth and a knock came to the door, almost as in surprise.

         "Frodo? Was that you?" a gentle and meek voice asked. The teenager sneered.

         "Go away, Merry… Leave me alone."

         "I was waiting for you to make a noise, so that I'd know you were still there."

         Frodo did not answer.

         "I'll still be here," Merry replied. "I'm gonna sit here until you come out again."

         Frodo groaned in annoyance as he took off his vest, tossing it onto the hard wood floor with a loud watery slap.  He sniffled.

         "Better not be sick…" he grumbled. He paused, thinking about it. He shook his head. "Bet I am…" He sniffled again. "What else can go wrong?"

         "Frodo?" Merry inquired. "Did you say something?"

         "Go away!" Frodo snapped, a frown on his lips. "I told you to leave me alone! How many times do I have to tell you people? Are all of you that bloody dense?"

         Merry winced at Frodo's remark and slinked away, feeling very hurt. Frodo muttered something under his breath as he began to remove his soggy shirt, almost tearing the buttons off of their seams. He sneezed again and then growled.

         "Damn it! Why don't I just die right now? Make it a lot easier…"

         He thought about it for a moment and snorted.

         "Still… It doesn't seem like a bad idea. But it'll just make all of those lousy bleeders upset again." He let out a cold laugh. "Don't want that to happen, now do we?"

         He finished taking off his shirt and put a fresh one on. Soon he was dressed in new clothes and he laid back down onto to his damp bed. His brown curls were plastered to his forehead, dripping bitter tasting water onto his face. He angrily shook his head, sending drops of water everywhere. He scowled and fell onto his pillow, sneezing. 

         "Then again, I could always make it seem like it happened naturally…" he tried joking to himself, but, alas, he could not find it funny. He clenched his eyes shut and waited for sleep. 

---

_         Mistress-Samwise: So Frodo swears. Boo fricken-hoo. I'm kinda ferklempt myself, and I tend to reflect it in my writing. I'll try to get to "LOTR at Half Budget" ASAP, but I haven't been in the humor mood… *sigh* the only funny thing I can do at this point in time is use a sarcastic British accent. *British accent* Now, go away or I'll have to take a cricket bat to your bum. Just kidding._

_I think._


	3. Cousin Bilbo

Mistress-Samwise: Yay. I'm back. But I can't keep updating this often for long, I hope you know. Tomorrow, I'm going to my high school's adventure games club, so I'm happy that I'll be with fellow nerds, geeks, and, yes, even Ringers. HUZZAH! ^o^ One of you asked why Frodo was wet, and the answer is because he was just in the Brandywine (in case you don't know, this story kicks off right after a flashback that was in "Window To His Soul" in the chapter "Blood and Tears") Anywho, here's the next chapter. I'll try to write more chapters, okay? *crawls over to bedroom and falls asleep on bed* Zzzzzzzzzzz… 

---

            "Frodo … We brought your cousin Bilbo over… Maybe you might like to talk with him instead?"

            Frodo laid there with his face in his pillow. If anyone were in the room with him, they would immediately notice how pathetic he really looked. 

            "Oh, just go away," Frodo said, muffled. He was in too much of a funk to tell who was actually speaking to him.

            "Frodo-lad?" a more older and kindly voice spoke from behind the door. "This is your cousin Bilbo. Will you let me in?"

            Frodo sat up, his hair all over the place. He growled and began to run his fingers through the tangles.

            "Fine then— Ow! Bloody…" He sucked in his breath and then sneezed. "I guess you can come in— Ow! Wouldn't hurt— OW! Son of a—"

            He was about to finish his statement when Bilbo walked in.

            "Yes, Frodo? What was that you were going to say?"

            Frodo blanched.

            "Oh, nothing…" he said, forcing his fingers through a particularly tough snag. Bilbo sighed.

            "Why don't you use a brush like a normal hobbit?"

            Bilbo handed the hobbitlad the brush from off of the dresser. Frodo quickly grabbed it from his cousin's grasp, turned around to face the wall and attempted to brush his nappy hair.

            "Don't you turn your back on me, Frodo Baggins," Bilbo stated firmly. "I was warned of your state the instant I got here and I am prepared for the worst."

            "Hah hah hah." Frodo jeered callously. Bilbo frowned.

            "I know you're angry, but this is just ridiculous—" 

            Frodo cringed.

            " 'Ridiculous'…? 'Ridiculous'!?" Frodo yelled, narrowing his eyes. "I'll tell you what 'ridiculous' is! It's ridiculous to sit here and listen to all of you trying to make me feel better! 'Oh, poor little Frodo! How very sad and unfortunate he is!' The most 'sad and unfortunate' thing to happen to any of you is a spilled glass of milk! None of you have even begun to comprehend the 'sadness and misfortune' of what I had to experience back there in the river!"

            Now Bilbo was fed up.

            "For your information, young man, I saw one of my best friends die right in front of me, in case you haven't forgotten."

            Frodo found himself in quite a predicament. He had forgotten about the fact that Bilbo had witnessed a certain dwarf lord's death. Now Frodo lost his cousin's blind sympathy, but, then again, he never really had it to begin with.

            "I'm sorry, Bilbo…" Frodo murmured, hanging his head in shame. "I'm sorry for yelling at you…"

            Bilbo smiled warmly.

            "I understand, Frodo, my lad."

            "Well… You're the only one I know who does."

            "You can't expect everyone to. Hardly anybody goes through what we had to."

            Frodo sighed and fell back onto his pillow, but not before hitting his head on the headboard.

            "Ow!" He rubbed his scalp. "See, Bilbo? Something bad is always happening to me!"

            "It may seem like that, especially around these times. But it'll pass."

            "I sure hope so…"

            "That is, of course, if you let it."

            "Hmm… Right…"

            Frodo fell silent, his mind wandering off.

            "Well, my lad… Whenever you're ready, I'll be outside, alright?"

            Frodo nodded his head. His cousin always knew what to say, no matter how much he didn't want to hear it.

---  
  


Mistress-Samwise: I'm gonna go and do junk right now. Tah. *wanders off aimlessly* 


	4. An Image More Hated

Mistress-Samwise: Here's a new chapter. *throws chapter at you* This one is ang-stay. Not angsty. It's ghetto angsty. It's ang-stay. Yeah. Hey, Demonic-Kiwi! ***robot voice* **Your request for an original character cannot be fulfilled. Such installment of an OC would result in an MS-DOS error and would require this story to shut down.*regular voice* In other words, no dice! I'm beginning to regret ever coming up with Dreena. Ah! Vile wench! Remove yourself from my sight! Hsssssss! *begins clawing away at the air like a cat* Like I said before, I have plans for Frodo… Oh yes. Plans… *starts laughing manically* Fu fu fu fu fu!

---

         It was late evening when Frodo decided to leave his room. Wandering down the long corridors of Brandy Hall, he ended up in the common room. It was filled with adults and children alike, many of whom were still mourning. He stood in the doorway, deciding whether he should enter or not. He was immediately ambushed by weeping relatives, getting caught in stuffy embraces.

         "Oh, Frodo! This must be so hard for you!"

         "Don't worry… We're here for you…"

         "It'll be alright…"

         "Poor lad!"

         Frodo grew very uncomfortable, squirming uneasily in their grasps. He felt oppressed, like they were trying to keep him down with his sorrow and grief.

         "Please… You don't need to do this… I'm fine—"

         "It's alright to admit that you're sad."

         "Yes, Frodo… Let it all out."

         "Don't keep it all in."

         He freed himself from their arms, throwing himself sideways, nearly stumbling into the wall. Steadying himself, he stood up straight, his face marked with exasperation.

         "Why can't you people leave me be? Look, I know you're trying to help me feel better, but I don't need that right now. I just want to be left alone for once in my life! You people are always doing something to me, and now I'm sick of it!" He paused for a moment, trying to catch his breath again. "Please… Just leave me alone."

         Elbowing past the others, Frodo left the room, leaving behind a group of hobbits murmuring amongst themselves. Once he got to his room, he threw himself onto his bed and laid there for a moment. 

         "Why…? Why do they always have to do that? I want to be alone, god damn it…! _Alone!"_

His body quaked with rage as he suddenly slashed away at the bed covers, ripping at the pillow. He flung it at the wall, the pillow slipped out of its case and it exploded, filling the air with feathers. He began to sneeze again and he clenched the pillowcase in his fists, his anger rising.

         "Damn them all!" he screamed. Jostling to his feet, he tore the dresser, hurling drawers at the floor, scattering its contents all over. Throwing the last one at the door, he stopped, and turned back around. Something he saw caught his eye. It was him, his reflection in the mirror. He stared at himself, his hair disheveled, his chest heaving, his face red with wrath and exertion. Standing there, peering at himself, he felt a new anger rise, fiercer and more violent than before. His hand drifted over to something hard and heavy from off his dresser and he whipped it at the mirror, glass spraying onto the floor like water. He then looked down to see what he had thrown: a stone rabbit carved for him by his father long ago.

         Frodo fell to his knees and for the first time since the accident, he cried. Tears of pain and misery slid down his face. Glass cut into his knees and hands, smeared with blood. One by one, he pulled the pieces out of his flesh, pieces of himself. He winced with pain, each shard like a tiny dagger; just another thing to tear away at his already jaded soul. He clasped his shirt in his fists, leaving dark crimson stains. Wearily, he got up onto his feet and collapsed onto his bed, crying into the mattress until, exhausted, he fell into a surrendering sleep.

         _Mom… Dad… Please forgive me…_

---

Mistress-Samwise: Wasn't that fun? Uhh… Next chapter soon, I hope… *wanders off aimlessly* 


	5. Later

Mistress-Samwise: Fu fu fu! I'm back! Have you seen the new TTT trailer? OH SWEET MOTHER OF MONKIES!!! The last minute is the BEST! I can't wait!!! But, in the meanwhile, here's a new chapter. One of you asked why I say "fu fu fu". Well, I was in eighth grade, and I was playing Pokemon Silver. I was up against a member of Team Rocket, and when they first talk to you, they laughed like "Fu fu fu fu fu!". I was like "That's funny." So I started using it. One-day, I drew a picture of Legolas on the jazz band chalkboard going "Fu fu fu fu fu!" to annoy my sister. And, somehow, that has seeped into my normal vocabulary. Even in real life, not just the net. So that's my story.

---

            The door slowly opened and Bilbo stepped in. He gasped as he saw the wake of Frodo's destruction. The room was in shambles; glass was everywhere, along with feathers, and the dresser was completely taken apart, like a gutted fish. Frodo laid sleeping on what remained of his bed, unconsciously sobbing. Tears sprang to Bilbo's eyes at this sight and he sat down beside the sleeping hobbitlad.

            "Frodo-lad… Please wake up…"

            Frodo stirred faintly as the sound of his cousin's voice, but did not wake up completely.

            "Please, Frodo… Wake up…"

            Bilbo placed his hand on Frodo's shoulder, but the hobbitlad pulled himself away and curled up into a ball.

            "L-Leave me alone, B-Bilbo…" Frodo hiccupped, sniffling. "Don't touch me…"

            "I'm here to help you, my lad," Bilbo answered.

            "You can help me by going away," Frodo replied, his tone suddenly harsh. Bilbo recoiled slightly in surprise.

            "It hurts me to see you like this…"

            Frodo said nothing. Bilbo silently sighed, looking around the room.

            "Why must you be so angry?"

            "I shouldn't have to explain myself to you. I thought you understood… But I guess I was wrong."

            "If there is anything I can do to help you, Frodo–" 

            "I told you already! Leave me alone! I just want to be alone! Why won't you people leave me alone?"

            Bilbo had just about had enough.

            "Because we care about you, that's why! And when you realize that, please feel free to rejoin society again. You can't live like this forever. One of us is going to get tired and it's not going to be me!"

            Bilbo marched out of the room, swiftly closing the door behind himself. Reason obviously wasn't working with the boy, so the next best thing was to wait it out. Frodo sneered bitterly as tears streamed down his cheeks.

            "B-Bloody old man…" he growled between sobs. "C-Can't tell me wha-what to do…"

            He crawled off of his bed and began to clean up the floor. Soon the drawers were back in the dresser, along with its contents, and all of the glass and feathers were safely swept into a pile. But he couldn't bring himself to even touch the stone rabbit and it laid on the floor along with a few bits of glass. He retreated back to his bed, wrapped himself in the covers, and then sneezed for a minute, and a plethora of colorful phrases shortly followed that.

            "I could always blame it all on bad water or poisonous mushrooms…" he attempted at jesting himself again, after his sneezing fit ended, but he had a poor sense of humor. He groaned and rubbed his eyes. "Damn it all… They're not *that* stupid…" He paused in thought and then let out an even angrier growl. "Oh, great! Now I'm talking to myself! Argg! Just kill me right now!"

            No answer.

            "Grrrr!" He slumped over and buried his face into the mattress, not bothering to pull it out again.

            "…I could always accidentally severely cut myself while combing my hair…"

            He then felt something inside of him screaming out for him to shut up, and he promptly did so.

            "… I could always— Oh, forget it…"

---

Mistress-Samwise: Yay. That was… Lame. All well. I'm going to go and watch the TTT trailer again. *wanders off aimlessly*


	6. Bah

Mistress-Samwise: The title of this chapter comes nowhere close to describing how I feel right now. If there's one thing I've learned from high school, it's that weekends **NEVER** come soon enough. I hope you enjoy this with much more jubilation than I can muster in telling you of it.

---

            Frodo was lying on his side, his body bowed with pain. The surrounding darkness was thick, almost tangible, as it blanketed him with an uneasy coldness. He slowly began to realize a presence behind him, but he was reluctant with fear as he painfully turned over to see who it was. And he had all the reason to be afraid: it was his mother. She was dreadfully silent as she pointed at him, at his hand. Looking down, he found in his grasp a dagger, tinted red with his own blood. He looked back up at his mother, her face filled with sorrow and disappointment. But just then, everything disappeared, and he found himself on his hands and knees in what seemed to be dry grass. A horrible orange glow illuminated clouds of smoke drifting over the tops of the grass. He then perceived a deep rumble break through the roar of the fire as the sweltering heat pressed against his face.

            "Where are you?" he cried, but there was no answer. He called out a second time, but no one responded. He began to panic as he crawled through the embers, burning his skin. But he didn't care; he was looking for something or someone very important. He tried hard to remember, but no name came to him. Still, he carried on, searching through the flames. He thought he had heard a voice when he suddenly woke up.

            "Huh…?" he mumbled, half awake. He looked around, and saw that he was back in his bedroom. Trying to open his drooping eyelids some more, he let out a tired sigh. "A dream…"

            He yawned and turned around, only to fall off his bed and onto the floor.

            "…Ow…" he said, still only half awake, too tired to cuss. "Wha' happen'?"

            It took him a moment to realize that he had fallen off of his bed.

            "Bah…"

            He crawled back onto his bed, and was ready to fall back asleep when a knock came to his door.

            "Frodo? It's me, Merry."

            "Mmm, go 'way, Mer…" Frodo grumbled.

            "Come on!" Merry pleaded. "You've been sleeping for over twelve hours! Don't you think you can use at least a little food?"

            "Too tired…" Frodo replied. Merry groaned and stepped into the room.

            "You're pathetic," Merry stated while placing a tray of blueberry scones on the night stand. Frodo only let out a pitiful moan, too sleepy to be over-offended.

            "Good heavens, Frodo!" Merry cried. "What are you going to do with yourself? All you've been doing is sleeping! It grows concerning after a while. Won't you eat something?"

            Frodo's hand wandered over and took a scone. He stared at it for a moment and then took a bite.

            "Toof ty-herd to heat," he said with his mouth full. Merry sighed in disgust.

            "Now you're just being silly," Merry pointed out. "Eat it or I won't leave."

            Frodo immediately swallowed and took another bite of the scone.

            "Isn't that much better?" Merry asked.

            "Bah…" Frodo replied.

            "Come on, it's only a scone! How hard can it be to eat a scone?"

            Frodo grumbled. Merry threw up his arms.

            "You're hopeless! Why don't you give us all a break and act like a normal hobbit for once?"

            "Bah…"

            "And I told you I'm not leaving until you finish that scone."

            Frodo took the scone, wadded it up into a ball and stuck the whole thing in his mouth.

            " 'appy now?"

            "Yes, quite."

            "Ooo can 'eave now."

            Merry promptly left the room, happy to be away from his dismal cousin. Frodo sat there a while, smiling smugly, fully aware of what a snob he was. He continued to eat the rest of he scones, now far from tired.

            "Hah! Fools! There's no way I'm giving in to them! But at least these scones are good…"

            He was halfway through the scone when he choked. After a long coughing fit, he managed to breathe again. He then proceeded to speak his mind upon the subject.

            "Hah hah hah… Real damn funny! Next time, try something a little more ironic!" He paused for a moment. "Who am I kidding? That was bloody ironic!" He growled. "Bah! I hate my life!"

            He sat all in a huff, not willing to touch the last scone.

            "If I don't eat it, I don't choke, so there!" He stuck his tongue out, but then bit it. "Ouch! Grr! This isn't funny!"

            But, alas, somebody out there found it all rather amusing, for the instant he finished his statement, he bit his tongue again.

            "Alright! Alright! I'll shut up! God…"

            And for a long while, he decided it was best if he didn't try to say anything else.

---

_Mistress-Samwise: After this chapter, it tends to get a little more serious, so… Yeah. Uhh… I have to go now. My planet needs me. *beams up*_


	7. Sleep

Mistress-Samwise: Huzzah! It's Columbus Day and I'm gonna go see Spirited away! Yay for anime!!! It's fun living in a country that gives days off because of some Italian guy who "discovered" it over five hundred years ago. God bless America! *salutes suddenly and mysteriously materialized flag, teary eyed*

_Since ff.net was such a butt on Saturday and you guys weren't, I've decided to reward you with a new chapter. Don't you feel special?_

_Anywho, it's Q-and-A time! Demonic-Kiwi: Yes. Angst is comin' right up! Right in this very chapter, too! Isn't that great? __JediKnightBalthasar__: No, he can't think of anyone else for once. He's a no-good-punk-@$$-teen. That's all the questions for the last chapter. Thanks for askin'!_

_As for the following chapter, prepare for good, ole fashioned ANGST! HUZZAH! Cry, cry, cry, self-mutilate, self-mutilate, self-mutilate (though I do try to avoid it as much as possible), yell, yell, yell, cry again, cry again, cry again, mysterious dream, mysterious dream, mysterious dream, and etcetera, etcetera. *dorky smile* Though everything won't come in three's. How could I come with three dreams? *a la Brian Fellows from SNL* That's crazy!_

_Idea Update!: I've just got a deliciously WICKED idea, and I wonder if I should use it… Lemme give you a clue: it involves poppies. Now how wicked can poppies be…? Think about it for a moment. *evil grin* Ooo-hoo-hoo! Mayhap I can work it in… *evil, evil grin* That would be so much "fun"! So it ain't Mary Jane, but it'll do… Oh, yes, it'll do… Fu fu fu! *laughs maniacally*_

Erp. You want to read? Then go do that. *throws chapter at you* 

---

            Several days passed… Frodo slept through most of it, and concern grew outside of his room. He had barely eaten anything, and some were saying he had a cold. But whenever anybody tried to make any sort of contact with the boy, they were quickly burned and sent away with shocked looks on their faces. They could often hear him yell out in rage, swearing at some higher power for what had happened in the river. The real problem was when he directed all of that anger towards a real person. It was tough, even for Bilbo. He was far from being ready to listen to any logic, no matter whom it came from. The only thing he wanted, desired, demanded was solitude. But it was hard, even for him, to get it. The hobbits of Brandy Hall were determined to break through Frodo's bad temper, but it was a battle better left without a fight.  For he was just as determined, if not more so, to keep all others as far away from himself as possible. Through his eyes they only made things worse, intruding upon his life and attempting to control his emotions.

            "Why can't you leave me alone?" he would often cry. "You people are nowhere near to understanding half of what I went through! I don't need your help… I don't need anybody's help!"

            And for a week this continued. Frodo would be found asleep for often more than twelve hours a day, getting up only eat something very meager, and then go back to sleep. Nothing could keep him awake, not even spending precious hours outside in the sunlight or caffeine-loaded tea.

            "It might be because he wants to escape," they would say. "Or maybe he's depressed."

            Frodo liked the fact that he slept so much. In sleep, there was no one to bother him, no one to try and help him. But he wasn't only escaping from the other people around him, for you see, in sleep, he escaped from himself.

            When he stood dripping wet on the shore of the Brandywine, staring blankly at its murky depths, at the two hobbits sinking below its surface, he felt something slip. He had just figured out what happened; he escaped from the boat and his parents didn't, he got to the shore and his parents didn't, and he was standing there, doing nothing, trying to figure out the situation. That was when he realized…

_            I… Could have saved them…._

            But why didn't he?

            _It's my fault… They're dead… Because of me…_

            What kept him back?

            _I couldn't control myself… I didn't have the power…_

While standing alone on the shore, watching the overturned boat bob in the river's water, he felt something slip. He felt all of his power slip away.

_God damn you, Frodo Baggins! Why didn't you save them?_

Through his own eyes, he killed two people. Not the river. Not its rapids. Not the misbalanced boat. Him. Frodo. And that was whom he now hated the most: himself.

            In sleep, Frodo escaped not only from the others around him, but also himself. *That* is why he slept.

---

Mistress-Samwise: Yes, I return to tell you that if you ask me any questions, any at all, I'll try and answer 'um in the next chapter. It's all part of being a nice and good author. Happy readers are readers who review, as I always say. Reviews make me happy, and a happy Amy is an Amy that UPDATES! Yes, you heard me right. Now… Go forth and review!


	8. Prayer

Mistress-Samwise: First of all, I'm going to answer your questions, okay?: Tiggivon: Well, you have it half right. He goes on a "trip", alright. Yes… A "trip". *evil grin* As I said before, it ain't Mary Jane, but it'll do.

_Hmm… Looks like that was all the questions. Oh well._

_Chapter note: Please, please, **PLEASE** don't go on and on about all the churchy stuff in his chapter. I know Tolkien didn't say **ANYTHING** about **ANY** sort of church system (or organized religion for that matter) in the Shire, but I don't give a rat's butt. This makes for extremely good storyline, does it not? And that's the only thing I care about right now. PAY ATTENTION TO WHAT HE'S DOING AND SAYING!!! It'll come in handy later, believe me. Don't come crying to me like "There was nothing like that in the books!" You know what? I don't fricken care._

_I'm going to get some hot chocolate now._

---

            The day was very beautiful. The sun hung in a cloudless sky as the birds chirped in the trees. This kind of splendor was commonplace in the Shire, and anyone who wasn't used to it would have been breath taken. Frodo's sable coat, vest, and knickers grew stifling under the sunlight. Rain would have been too cliché, so, for his parents' funeral, he got mockingly delightful weather.

            He stood beside the two caskets while the eulogy was delivered. He looked almost professional; his hands clasped behind his back, his hair neatly slicked behind his ears, his jet-black suit immaculate. He was flanked by teary-eyed aunts and uncles, mourning for their lost loved ones. But his face was gray and emotionless as he stared ahead, his eyes barely shining with a cold light.

            "Dearly beloved… We are gathered here today to mourn the passing of Drogo and Primilla Baggins…"

            The pastor's words floated off into emptiness. Frodo felt nothing, heard nothing. He was digging his nails into the back of his hand as he tried hard not to sneer in pain and anger. It was presumed that he would be one of the saddest persons there, but he was nowhere near to showing it.  His anger was more than just a façade; it ran deep, very deep. 

            _Sorrow is a weakness. Rage is strong. Rage is powerful._

            But he was so confused. At times, he let his anger slip and he would fall into despair. He would stay there, deep in woe and sadness until he made himself come back. Often he had thought about punishment, punishment for his moments of weakness, but he derived a sort of sick pleasure of watching himself push away his family and friends and watching them get hurt by it. And, for him, that was punishment enough.

            "… But we thank the Father for sparing their son Frodo from the same terrible fate…"

            His façade began to crumble and he could no longer keep the tears from slipping out onto his face. He found himself embraced by his relatives, crying into their arms. Many thoughts streamed through his mind, but there was one that turned up the most often.

            _Why was I saved? I killed them… I'm a murderer…I should have drowned with them…_

            He brought his hand to the other and mercilessly plowed his nails into his skin. The more he cried, the further they went in. Eventually, he pulled himself away from his relatives and swiftly stuck his one hand into his pocket, hiding a reality he feared. Looking over at his other hand, he found that his fingertips were tinged slightly red, and he quickly concealed that hand also. For a while after that, he felt the sickening sting of the cuts on his hand, the beads of blood rolling off onto the inside of the coat pocket.  He sharply drew in his breath as his hand throbbed with pain.

_            Let it flow out… Just let it all flow out…_

            He was often more willing to let blood flow than tears.

            Silently slipping behind his aunts and uncles, he quickly strode past the crowd of mourning guests and stepped into the church. He closed the door behind himself and let out a half-sigh, half-sob. 

            _I can't stand it… All of this is just so… So… Morbid.           _

            He shuddered, but then sneezed, suddenly remembering his cold. Grumbling, he tromped over to the washroom, opening the door with his one hand. He grumbled even louder to find out that the washbasin was out of water. Slamming the door again, he wandered out into the rectory. The stained glass threw warm painted light onto the cold stone floor. He stopped in front of the altar, wordless with emotion. Slowly looking over his shoulder, he spotted the ornate holy water basin. He bit his lip as he stepped over to the basin and reluctantly drew his bloodied hand out. Shame consumed his being as he dipped his hand into the icy, crystal clear water. It stung with pain as wisps of blood turned the water scarlet. Tears pricked at the back of his eyes and they soon streamed out over his cheeks, dripping off into the basin. His sobs got louder, his body trembling as he wept. Swiftly pulling his hand out, he fell to his knees, bowed over in sorrow. 

            "_Eru forgive me!" he cried. For what seemed like hours he cried. He cried in despair, he cried in pain, he cried for what he'd become._

            _This isn't morbid… I am._

            Along with himself, he feared reality the most. The truth was painful, almost too painful for him to bear. 

            _All of this is my fault… The pain… The sorrow… It's all because of me…_

            But it was skewed truth, wrought in fear and grief. He sought it too quickly. He didn't take the time to really look at everything that happened, but instead settled with the fact that he was the one who killed his parents. As one would say to him later "Blaming yourself does not offer closure." Until then, he would live his life out in macabre pathos over all of this.

            Frodo looked up from the tear-stained tile at the kaleidoscope of color from the stain glass windows. The light hurt his eyes.

_            Oh, God… Send me an angel that shines bright with the Light of Heaven…_

            His eyes watered as the painted sunlight spilled over his face. He trembled and turned away. He could not look upon it any longer. Filled with humiliation, he buried his face in his hands and wept.

_            I do not deserve to gaze upon the Light of God…_

            He stood up, wiping the back of his hand on his pant leg. A shiver shot through his body as he stepped outside of the church. The air suddenly felt cold compared to when he was inside, but he thought nothing of it. For the rest of the sermon, he sat on the church steps. The others found him staring at the back of his hand, at the blood pooling around the self-inflicted cuts.

            "Are you alright?" someone asked him.

            "Yes," he grumbled. "It's nothing." Standing up, he left ahead of the others, sticking both of his hands into his pockets. Right now, he did not want to be with anyone else and wished to be away from himself for a while. Later in the day, it would cloud over and rain, turning the sunshine into gloom. He sighed in aggravation.

            "A little late for that now…"

---

Mistress-Samwise: Alrighty then! I'm going to take a small break, a week perhaps, before the next chapter. This is a natural break in the story, because the next chapter will take place six years later (or something like that). Believe me, you're gonna love the next chapter, especially the dream. Fu fu fu! I'm telling you in advance to NOT ASK ME WHO OR WHAT IT IS IN HIS DREAM !!! You must figure it out yourself, so "Bleh". *sticks out tongue* I'm going to go wait to see my brother who's visiting from his college. Yay! Andy! ^o^


	9. Shipped Out

_Mistress-Samwise: *breathes big sigh* Phew! I'm glad I don't have *too* much to do right now… You don't know how relieving that is. My life's been up and down lately and I have no idea what's going to happen next. It's gonna be a hard few months…_

_Enough about me! What about your questions? Let's see…: Tiggivon: Let me tell you one thing: you're catching on. Blue Jedi Hobbit 009: "Half Budget"? I'm working on it… Serious this time. Last time I was fibbin'. Not now, not now. Athena: Ask that again later. You'll see why, eventually._

_Is that all? So be it._

_Chapter Notes!: This is a long 'un, chillins. Settle in, grab some chips, break open the Vanilla Coke… and don't yell at me about the dream! Some of you might be like "*slyly* Oh, you! *raises eyebrow*" or "*angry* Oh, you! *sends fist through monitor*" But whatever you do, don't come crying to me, capeesh? Especially you, Athena!_

_You guys are really gonna kill me over the next one… but that's not for a while. I still gotta write the one after that. And I promise I'll try to get to "Half Budget"!_

---

            Stumbling over the dew-covered ground, Frodo desperately clutched the mushroom-filled bag to his chest. His breath froze on the early morning air as he narrowly dodged low-hanging tree branches. Behind him, the ferocious snarls of Farmer Maggot's wolfhounds rang piercingly, thrusting even more fear into the hobbitlad's heart.

            "Merry!" he cried, quickly glancing over his shoulder. "Merry! Where are you?"

            He suddenly lurched forward, falling face first into the dirt.

            "I'm right here, Frodo…" Merry said, drawing his foot back from under his cousin. 

            "Did you have to trip me?" Frodo asked, trying not to sound angry.

            "Fine mess you got us into," Merry hissed. "How do you suppose we get out of _this one?"_

            Frodo said nothing, nervously digging his fingers into the tough leather bag. Merry rubbed at his eyes, an aggravated smirk on his lips.

            "I don't even know why I let you make me do these things! Do you realize how much trouble we'll be in? Not only have we raided a farm field, teed off Maggot's dogs, but we snuck out in the middle of the night!"

            "Look, I'm thinking of a way—"

            "Well, you better bloody well think faster!"

            The two hobbits stared ahead intently, listening helplessly as the howl of the dogs drew closer. Frodo was now panicking as he grabbed Merry and pushed up off the ground.

            "Run!"

            Abandoning the ill-gotten mushrooms, Frodo and Merry hurtled past tree after tree. They stopped at the steep overhang jutting out of the forest floor. Frodo hastily lowered his cousin over the side, occasionally peering behind his shoulder. 

            "Quick!" he stated, carefully letting go of Merry's arms. "Wait by the side of the road. I'll lead them away."

            Merry nodded and slid down the side of the hill. Frodo's breath hitched as he heard the rapid footfall of the enraged hounds closing in. He scrambled away along the edge of the cliff, nearly slipping off.

            _Why did I have to do this?_

            Just then, one of the dogs pounced out in front of him, stopping him dead in his tracks. Whipping himself around, he found the other two, crouched, their teeth bared in a menacing scowl. He was just about to jump over the side when he was grabbed by the wrist and thrown onto the ground.

            "You again?" Farmer Maggot growled in surprise. "So you've decided to go for three in one month? Impressive, but what about your little friend?"

            "There is no other one!" Frodo cried defensively, trying to keep Merry out of it. "I came alone!"

            "Don't play me for stupid, you filthy little brat! You just tell 'im that you both are in a lot of trouble! Isn't that right, Fang?"

            The dog frothed in rage, snarling at the mention of his name.

            "If it were any earlier, I would have let these dogs tear you apart. They don't like being woken up from their sleep."

            Frodo knew that there was truth in those words. He slowly backed away from his captors, trembling with fear.

            "You're not going anywhere!" Farmer Maggot snapped. "I'll be sure you and your pal pay dearly for this."__

            The farmer's gaze pierced Frodo like burning knives, though the fear he felt would pale in comparison with that when he got back to Brandy Hall.

            "Why do you do this?  It has been years, Frodo… Years! It hurts everybody to see you this angry. We've tried to help you, talk to you, even punish you… But nothing works. Why won't you let us help you?"

            Frodo said nothing, but rather lowered his gaze, his lips curled in a sneer.

            "What do you want us to do? Let you stay like this? You're nearly twenty-two years old, you know. It's time you start taking responsibilities for your own actions. I understand that you were only a child, but now it's just absurd—"

            "It's not as easy as you think!" Frodo broke in. "You don't understand- you can't understand! You people think that I can just simply forget everything that happened to me and continue living my boring and meaningless life just so you won't have to deal with my emotions. But guess what? I can't do that, so don't go telling me how I should act! Nothing gives you that right!"

            He then rushed away into his room before anything else could be said. Nothing needed to be; he had already figured out that there was no way he would be going to Bilbo's up-coming birthday party, and, with the fact Merry had gotten caught up in Frodo's little escapade, the added time would be worse. He knew he was really in for it now, and there was nothing that could get him out of it this time. For six years his behavior had consistently gotten worse and worse, and so did the patience of all who were around him. So if last time proved any worth, the punishment now would be anything short of complete and utter exile.

            _Wouldn't be so bad… he thought. __Nobody around to bother me. _

            Frodo waited a while, waited for someone to burst in, yelling. But nothing happened, and that seemed very off. These weren't the type of people who, one moment, were screaming at you, and then, another, turn around and _actually leave you alone. They just __wouldn't do that; do what you wanted them to do. Or, at least, never for Frodo, that is._

            Nevertheless, he stayed in his room with his growing suspicion. Occasionally, he would yell and scream, and then wait for a reaction. Alas, he got none. He thought that, maybe, they had grown afraid of him, afraid of his anger. Of course, there always were the random people who always strayed away from him whenever he came near, for they caught him at the wrong time to make first impressions. But he never figured that a large group of people would avoid him solely because of his anger. He was rather impressed by that, for he had achieved something he had tried doing for so long. And, somehow, he was also scared of that.

            But he always found the best thing to do when he hit a snag like that was to ignore it. And he did. Nothing's easier than ignoring your own faults, and if he could have made a job out of that, he would have been a millionaire.

            While he was doing precisely that, a week and a half passed. It was now September sixteenth and six days before his birthday. Naturally, he was not anticipating a celebration of any sort, more or less even experience his cousin's. Yet he had not gotten any word of his not going, but he presumed the former to happen anyway. So in his boredom, Frodo found himself picking away at his bedpost with a dull penknife.

            "Ugh," he groaned incoherently, pushing the blade against the wood grain, sending shavings flying into the air. "My life is so meaningless- Ugg!" He sent a particularly large piece of wood sailing across the room, along with the penknife. "Ah, damn…"

            Mumbling unintelligibly, he stooped over to retrieve the knife and continued to carve away at the bedpost. He was past halfway through when a knock came to the door.

            "What?" He flinched in surprise, shoving the blade into the post and cracking off the bed knob. Before he could respond justly to that situation, Saradoc entered.

            "Frodo?" Saradoc asked. "Frodo, will you put that thing away? Heaven knows how you got it and why you still have it… Please, you're making me nervous."

            Frodo shot a cold, steely gaze at the older hobbit while he sheathed the knife, sending a shiver up Saradoc's spine.

            "Now, Frodo… You know I didn't mean anything by that—"

            "Of course you didn't," Frodo murmured. He placed the penknife on the bed stand and casually ran his slender, ashen fingers through his dark chestnut hair.

            "Is that who I am to you?" he inquired, sounding more downhearted than upset. "Some angry, disturbed young hobbit who does nothing but hurt?" His words grew thick, and he cut himself off before he went any further. For a while, Saradoc said nothing but quickly gained his commanding, grown-up confidence.

            "You have not done much to prove us otherwise," Saradoc stated. "How can you expect us to treat you like a normal hobbit when you don't act like one?"

            Frodo had many answers to that question, but found it best not to mention them. He was in enough trouble as it was, and a few strategically placed four-letter words would certainly make matters much worse. Saradoc quietly cleared his throat and continued.

            "But that's why I want to speak to you." He paused for a moment, trying to get his thoughts in order. "It's about your behavior, Frodo. I'd hate to be so blunt but, quite frankly, your behavior is out of control. I don't know how hard you've been trying, but we've just about given up on you."

            Saradoc looked down at Frodo and his heart wrenched. The hobbitlad's eyes shone brightly with tears as he bit down hard onto his bottom lip.

            "Frodo, Frodo, Frodo…" Saradoc cooed. "Please…" He placed his arm around Frodo and managed to keep it there until Frodo pulled himself away. Saradoc furrowed his brow in worry; Frodo was so small, so slight, almost too much so. He had so much emotional pain, and now it was really beginning to show. Was it all on purpose?

            "Frodo-lad…" Saradoc said, lifting Frodo's chin up from his chest. "We love you, Frodo… Please never forget that. Nothing you could do will ever make us hate you. But we don't want you to stay like this forever. It hurts, Frodo, it hurts. We want what's best for you."

            Frodo looked up, not quite sure at what Saradoc was getting at.

            "Your aunt and I have thought about it for a very long time," Saradoc continued. "But before I go on, just let me tell you we did not want it to come to this, but… you made us. We've spoken to your cousin Bilbo about it, and he has agreed to let you live with him in Hobbiton."

            Before he went on, Saradoc paused. Frodo sat in a stunned silence, completely stricken by what he heard.

            "It was partly his idea. He knew how much trouble you were having adjusting to life after your parents' death. He thought it would be much easier for you to live in a place where you wouldn't have to worry about the pressures of other people."

            "It's not like we are trying to get rid of you, Frodo. We really do think that this is best for you. Bilbo was looking for an heir anyway, so we decided to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak."

            Frodo stared at Saradoc with a sort of amazed incredulity, not certain whether this was a good thing or not. He was, of course, rather fond of his cousin, and didn't mind the fact that he would have to be living with him. But this suddenly? He had no idea that he had driven all his family to this option, and that left him stunned. Had he really been _that angry?_

            He felt mad at his family for doing this to him, yet he felt immense guilt. _He had done this. __He had driven them this far. But just shipping him off? __This would solve everything? Frodo wasn't sure. There was no choice but to trust their judgment. They obviously must have been desperate, for they always could have done this years before. Maybe it would be best…_

            The following four days were slow ones. Between packing and numerous final arrangements, Frodo was approached time and again by relatives saying their last good-byes. Merry, whom days before would be reveling in this occasion, was the most choked-up. There was nobody else he liked to spend time with than his older cousin, even if it meant landing himself into a lot of trouble.

            "I hope you'll come visit us again," Merry pleaded to Frodo.

            "Of course," Frodo replied, forcing an encouraging smile. "There's always Bilbo's birthday party."

            "Not this time," Merry stated grimly. "Because of you, I'm stuck here. You get to live with the man, and I don't even get to go to his party. 'Hey, Merry! Wanna do something _really fun?' "Yeah, Frodo! Like what?" 'I dunno… Steal mushrooms, perhaps?' "_

            "I do hope you know I am sorry about that there, Merry."

            "Certainly," Merry grinned. "We're cousins! We can't stay mad at each other forever."

            "No, we can't."

            As Frodo spent his last evening at Brandy Hall, he sat in his bedroom, staring at the empty chests and dressers, thinking of his same empty soul.

            _How can anything cure this…this void…?_

            The sleep he finally fell into was dark and restless. Uneasy shadows crept up, only to recede, showing glimpses of a dream.

            _"Please stop…"_

            Frodo felt his lips move, but the voice was not his own.

            _"… the pain…"_

            Slowly staring up from the dagger in his hand, Frodo look ahead at the raging river in front of him. White, glowing feathers swirled around in the breeze, landing at his feet. Brushing up against his tearstained cheeks, they lifted little bits of liquid pain off his face, leaving a strange sensation upon his skin. A shiver ran up his spine as he suddenly felt someone behind him, an explosion of light guiding him with a strong yet gentle force.

            _"… my beloved…"_

            Suddenly, his eyes shot open, and he found himself awake, back in his cold, bare room, unable to fall asleep again. For long time he contemplated his vision, recalling the powerful presence which engulfed his entire being with such a warmth… such a _love… that he found it unreal… completely impossible. He had grown so used to the coldness in his life, the emptiness…_

            "That voice…"

            But he could find no name for it, and soon gave up deciphering his dream. Morning found him tired and restless as he departed from Brandy Hall for the last time. A new life was to be begun in Hobbiton, and his start was as mysterious and bittersweet as the way it would end.

---

Mistress-Samwise: Liked that, huh, didn't ya, didn't ya, huh, huh, didn't ya? Save the ranting for next chapter, scheduled for next week. I'm going to go mess around with Dreamweaver right now. Tah.


	10. Sam

Mistress-Samwise: One day early update. Let me just get this down: School is… worse than I thought. The 'rents don't really know yet, and if it's as bad as I think it is, my "death" will be swift and commanding… Most possibly resulting in an expulsion from any non-school related computer work. That might mean no word from me for a while. But in the end, the whole mess would be all my fault. I'm such a frickin' retard.

School's evil… Biology's evil… The fundamentals of English are evil… Homework's evil… Biology's evil… Algebra's only annoying. It seems the only thing I know how to do is art and trumpet-playing. I can write (I'm sure you know that), but I can't tell you how you write. I just do it. None of that stupid tedious grammar rules or all that crud. But bio's the work of the devil. There is no greater evil, for I'm sure Sauron could have destroyed Middle-earth in half the time by spreading periodic tables and the scientific method all over the land.

But enough about me! There weren't any questions last chapter, so I'll cut to the chase. This chapter was fun yet hard to write, especially that one part when he's in the garden. You'll know what I mean. The best thing to do is to NOT DWELL ON IT TOO MUCH! Please don't come bawling to me about it! I'll scream in return. Another thing was the song: I practically made that up on the spot. Also, I can't stop you from ranting in your reviews, but I'd like it if you didn't yell at me. Like I said before, I'll respond in kind. 

Well… *crosses fingers* Here's hoping. Maybe I'll just be maimed…

---

            It was late afternoon when Frodo and Bilbo rolled up to Hobbiton in their horse cart. Frodo occasionally glanced over to see other hobbits staring back. Sinking into his seat, he nervously turned to his cousin.

            "Bilbo…" Frodo said, not trying to be too loud. "They're staring at me."

            "You'll get used to it, my lad," Bilbo replied, smiling. "They don't mean any harm. They just find you… a little out of place."

            Frodo sighed and folded his arms across his chest. 

            _Not even a day and I'm already "out of place"…_

Bilbo stopped the cart outside a shop.

"I'll just be a moment. There are a few things I still have to get for the party. You can wait here if you wish."

Frodo made no sign of disagreement. Bilbo stepped out of the cart and disappeared into the shop. The busy ambience of the market made time seem slower. A minute passed by, heavily encumbered by the mind-numbing ennui. Frodo let out a groan of boredom.

"Ugg…"

Idly smoothing his hair behind his ears, Frodo suddenly froze as felt a pair of eyes land on him. He slowly glanced over the side of the cart. Below was a small hobbitchild clinging to her mother's hand, gaping at Frodo with eyes the size of saucers, filled with curious amazement. The hobbitlad stared back, his lips slightly curled back in an anxious smile. This only caused the child to lean in closer, silent with fascination and awe. Her mother tugged at her arm, but the hobbitlass didn't notice.

"Come on, honey," the child's mother stated. She looked over to see her daughter gawking at a boy in a cart, and couldn't help slipping a gaze at him before dislodging her child. "Don't stare."

The little girl allowed then herself to be dragged away by her mother, but her eyes were still fixed on Frodo. She gave him an enthusiastic wave good-bye before vanishing into the crowds. Frodo groaned and hid his face in his hands.

"Am I really that strange-looking?" he said into his palms. Often he was mistaken for an elf because of his most un-hobbitish looks; his deep brown hair, pale blue eyes and equally pallid complexion made him seem of a fairer race. His form was so full of grace and elegance that a few times before he was thought to be a hobbitlass. Of course, he utterly loathed the fact that he looked nothing like a regular hobbit, the fact that he was almost always immediately out of place wherever he went merely because of his appearance.

Thankfully, Bilbo returned to the cart, a brown paper bundle under his arm. With a whip of the reigns, he and Frodo were off to Bag End. As was the ritual every year, the party tents were being raised in preparation of Bilbo's party. All of it was just another addition to the many colors that lined Bag Shot Row.  Frodo had never seen anything like it in his life; flowers cascaded color upon color from the well-tended gardens, bright smial doors stood out cheerfully, their brass doorknobs gleaming in the sun. Bag End stood as a testament to all this by itself. Frodo had only been in it a few precious times, but it was still an unfamiliar wonder to him. 

"Welcome to your new home, Frodo," Bilbo said while slowing the cart to a stop. Before stepping off, Frodo unloaded one of the trunks out of the back and dragged it to the front door.

"Ugg!" he grunted. Bilbo let out a sigh.

"Now, really… You can't even lift a trunk! You're going to have to work on that. No staying inside all day while you're here."

Frodo grumbled, straining to pull the chest over the uneven cobblestone.

"Use your legs!" Bilbo added.

"I… Ugg… Am… Ugg!"

Bilbo made another pathetic sound before unlocking the round green door.

"You're lucky your room's right down the hall. If I knew you were this weak, I would have put it at the other end of the house."

"Bleeehhh."

"It's right there, the third door to the left," Bilbo pointed down the corridor. "Feel free to look around the place while I sort out party matters. Knowing you, it's probably best if you just stay out of he way."

Frodo was fed up with his cousin's berating comments, and continued to pull the chest down the hallway. Once he got to his new room, he left the trunk in the middle of the floor and swiftly threw himself onto the bed.

"At least the beds are nice…" he muttered while wriggling the crick out of his back. Before he knew it, he was fast asleep, catching up on what he lost the previous night. Besides reading, sleeping would be the only thing he would want to do while being exiled from the party. Even though he had moved here, he wasn't necessarily entitled to take part in the celebration on account of what he did to get himself here.

Eventually he awoke to find himself facing the opposite direction, his head at the foot of the bed. The bed sheet was tangled around his waist and leg, and the pillow was on the floor.

"Wah…?" he mumbled groggily while stretching his aching back. "How'd that happen?"

He miserably crawled out of bed and then sought out his trunk, but not before tripping over it first. Rather than spouting out any unnecessary exclamations, he silently massaged his foot and grumbled while unlatching the case. He stuck his arm into the clothing and pulled out a random shirt.

"Good enough."

It took him a while to button his shirt correctly. After that, he threw on a pair of knickers and floated out into the hallway. The morning sunlight spilled in from the windows, casting pools of gold onto the floorboards.  Looking out past one of the windowpanes, he saw the aftermath of last night's party. There was a small clean-up crew scuffling about. Frodo stood there for a moment, his head ticking away at data he was observing. Eventually he came to the conclusion that he would not like to help clean and that if he hid himself somewhere, he wouldn't have to. So he drifted around Bag End, looking for a sufficient room to hide in. He picked out a study, happy to see its bookshelves overflowing with literature. Closing the door behind himself, he cracked his knuckles and set to work. There was a lot to read. 

Late afternoon arrived faster than he expected, and so had his always annoying urge to eat. He folded up his book, tucked it under his arm, and strolled out into the kitchen. There Bilbo was busy himself with afternoon tea, setting out small pastries onto the table.

"There you are," Bilbo said, surprised. "I was just about ready to find you. Just where were you all this time?"

"Around," Frodo replied after taking a bite out of a scone. "I just wanted to get a little something to eat and I'll go back to my room."

"Oh, no you don't!" Bilbo exclaimed, catching the hobbitlad before he could step away. "You really need to get outside for a change. Go on! Move!"

Bilbo began pushing Frodo towards the door. Frodo looked over his shoulder in slight confusion.

"Bilbo…? Bilbo…? What are you doing?"

"Trying to get you out of here!" Bilbo stated, reaching over for the doorknob and getting it open with his fingertips. He then strained to push the reluctant hobbitlad past the doorframe.

"Come on, Bilbo! Do you- Is this really necessary?"

"Yes! Now… Get… Out!"

Bilbo gave Frodo one last push and propelled him out of the door. He then swiftly shut it before Frodo could turn around. Then there was a click sound signaling that Frodo had indeed been locked out. Immediately reading each other's minds, both took off for the back door, but Bilbo arrived first and locked it, too.

"Ah hah!" Bilbo jeered.

"Bilbo!" Frodo growled, pulling on the doorknob. "Come… On!"

Suddenly, the door flew open and Bilbo stepped out to grab the book from under Frodo's arm.

"And no reading, either!" Bilbo then darted back in, locking the door behind him. Frodo growled furiously and struggled with the knob in vain.

"The only thing you do more than reading is yelling and complaining!" Bilbo said from behind the shut door. "You need to do something else for once!"

"It's not like you do anything yourself!" Frodo retorted.

"That's because I'm a withered, old hobbit and you're not! Now… Go!"

Frodo gave up, finding re-entrance impossible.  He was stuck outside with nothing to do. Sheer torture.

For a while he wandered aimlessly around the gardens, once in a while stopping to stare blankly at something. If he was in a better mood, he would have noticed how spectacular it all looked; meticulously bred flowers at full-bloom, lush green vegetables, carefully trimmed hedges. Bilbo had been lucky enough to have a one Hamfast Gamgee always attending to his gardens, a member of a family prestigious for their outstanding garden work. 

The Gamgees lived on Bag Shot Row and were a fairly large family. Although they made considerably less than some, they were thankful for what they did get and for Bilbo's wonderful hospitality. Humble, they were, in their ways and in their speech. Bilbo had many failed attempts to get Hamfast to drop the ever-present "Mister Bilbo" or "sir" in his statements, but it was to no avail. The Gamgees knew their place was below any Baggins'; it was "not proper" to think otherwise. "Never forget your place, lads," Hamfast would tell his sons. "Mister Bilbo is helping us put our food on the table, but don't go thinkin' you're entitled to much anything more. Keep your hands in the earth, but don't let your head stay in the clouds." The Gamgees were the servants, and Bilbo was their master. Simple as that.

Frodo sat down on a bench beside a flowerbed. Reclining back, his eyes wandered around the garden. A bee lazily flitted from flower to flower and buzzed off into the bushes. Blowing the curls from his forehead, the sudden breeze rushed in, cool and refreshing. He closed his eyes and basked as the wind caressed his face, listening to the leaves rustle in the trees. He fell into a deep, meditative trance as he pricked his ears at a soft, singing sound. Eventually, he could hear words as the song became clearer.

"Even though the sun may set

Behind the dark blue sky

There is still light

'Least in my eyes

For love's light ne'er dies

*_uggh!* Please don't leave me_

Before the sun

Comes risin' *_ehh!* o'er east_

Uhh… Umm…*_oh, come on!*_

I'll lose my light

*_grr…*_

I'll *_ungh!* lose my love_

So stay with *_argh* me_

And the stars above- Ow!"

Frodo's eyes shot open at the last exclamation. The singing continued, interrupted by occasional grunt or forgotten verse. Slowly, Frodo stood up, gradually creeping across the lawn as he felt himself being drawn towards the voice. He wandered through the well-trimmed hedges, listening carefully to the song as he got closer. Soon he found himself standing in front of the singer on the opposite side of the hedge. He tried to peer in through the thick foliage but his gaze could not meet the other side, so he drifted over to the end of the privet. Instead of turning around the corner, he stopped, his eyes suddenly flitting to the crown of the hedge. Shaking his head briskly, he snapped his eyes forward, just to throw them at the hedge top again.

_What the…?_

Bit by bit, he slid his gaze from his side frontward, and stopped them halfway. He felt the hurried flutter of his heart in his chest as he brought his gaze to a halt upon something in his peripheral vision. Through only the corner of his eye, he could make out a form, blurred and out of focus, rising from behind the other side of the hedge. It was painfully white, as the sun was hitting it directly, and yet it seemed to gleam with a different kind of light. In the background, he could still hear the singing, and random grumbles of frustration.

"Grr! Why… Won't… You… Come… Out?"

The white form bobbed up and down like a flag flapping in the wind, sending off fluffy feathers in all directions. Frodo grew nervous with confusion.

_A bird…? But why I can't I see it?_

Suddenly, an exclamation broke the anxious reverie and the form disappeared in a puff of feathers.

"Ouch!"

The shimmering feathers drifted about until they dissolved into thin air. Frodo was paralyzed in shocked disbelief.

_What the hell…?_

He cautiously peered around the corner of the tall bushes. Kneeling upon the ground in front of a weedy flower patch was a small hobbitlad, his curly hair in a tousled, ginger mess. He was pulling with all his might on a nasty-looking weed, with no less than his bare hands. Frodo opened his mouth to say something, but couldn't quite get anything out at first.

"Uh… Excuse me…" Frodo said softly as the hobbitlad looked over at him.  "Did you happen to see a… a white bird that… exploded?" Frodo paused, just realizing how unbelievable his statement was. The boy stared at him for a moment, half with incredulity, half with fascination. He then suddenly snapped to his feet, briskly brushing his hands on his obviously oversized tunic.

"I-I'm sorry, sir," he stammered, lowering his eyes in embarrassment. "I-I didn't know you were there. I apologize if my singin' b-bothered you, sir."

Frodo furrowed his eyebrows in confusion as the boy bowed low, like he was obligated to do so.

"There's no need to apologize," Frodo stated. "It's just that I saw… something… and I thought that maybe you did, too."

"Pardon me, sir," the hobbitlad murmured quietly. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand what you're sayin', sir."

Frodo thought for a moment.

"I guess I don't get it any more than you do, either," Frodo replied, scratching his head. "Sorry."

The boy's shining brown eyes widened at the previous remark.

"Oh, no, no, no! There's no need for that, sir! P-Please!" He then started a long, rambling explanation while he fiddled nervously with the trim of his tunic. "I'm terribly sorry for disturbin' you while you were trying to take a stroll. It's just that I always sing when I'm pullin' weeds, but me Gaffer always tells me to be quite to Mister Bilbo can concentrate on his work and that I should only really sing a song when I know all the words. It's a silly one, I know, and I really should try to concentrate on my work more than my singing—"

"What was the name of that song?" Frodo interrupted. "It was beautiful."

"I-I don't rightly know," the small hobbitlad replied, blushing to his ear tips. "I learned it from my sisters a-and I thought it sounded nice, that's all." He anxiously wiped his hands on his tunic again, making sure that they were clean. Frodo frowned.

"What's your name?" he asked, kneeing down to meet the boy eye-level. "How old are you?" The boy gave a quick flinch of surprise.

"S-Samwise Gamgee, sir," he stuttered, his face turning an even deeper shade of red. "I-I'm eight years old."

"I'm Frodo Baggins," the older hobbitlad stated, grinning widely as he held his hand out. "Nice to meet you, Samwise."

Samwise stared at Frodo's hand with huge eyes, frozen. Quickly realizing what to do, he jumped like a frightened cat and swiftly returned Frodo's gesture.

"Hello, Mister F-Frodo, sir. And, please, just call me S-Sam." He bowed low. "You're the Buckland lad, aren't you, Mister Frodo?"

"Yes, I just moved here yesterday," Frodo answered, nodding his head. "Why are you out here pulling weeds?"

"It's my job, sir," Sam replied. "Actually, it will be my job… Me Gaffer trains me so later I can work for Mister Bilbo. I'm not right ready enough to tend the flowerbeds, so I help by pullin' weeds. But in a few years I can learn how to grow beautiful flowers like me Gaffer does." He then proceeded to try another attempt on the weed, managing to pull a few of the roots up. Frodo grinned at this spectacle.

"Wicked little buggers, aren't they?"

Sam gulped and nodded his head timidly in agreement and said nothing. Frodo laughed and patted him on the back.

"I can get us some tea if you like—"

"No!" Sam cried suddenly, jerking himself up as if he'd been sitting on hot coals. "I mean… No thank you, Mister Frodo! You needn't be doin' that, sir. I-It's really kind you, but I don't need nothin' right now—"

"I insist upon it, my dear lad," Frodo smiled, now rather amused by this boy's outrageous behavior. "Perhaps I can get Bilbo to let us have some honeycakes."

Sam's eyes widened at the mention of honeycakes, but he quickly shook his head in refusal. Frodo stared furtively at him.

"Not even _one little honeycake?"_

Sam thought.

"Well…"

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," Frodo said, standing up again. "Come on."

Sam mumbled an immediate "Yes, sir" before joining Frodo down the garden path. Frodo glanced about the passing flowerbeds and trees.

"Nice work," he commented. "Did your father really do all of this?"

Sam nodded his head.

"With a little help from my brothers. They don't work here often, but they help start jobs, an' me Gaffer finishes them off."

"'Jobs'?"

"That's what we call certain parts of the garden we work on. Like what me Gaffer said to me this mornin'," He then assumed a deep, sarcastic voice, exaggerating his father's accent. "'Sam-lad, you really have to finish the job behind the far hedges today, otherwise I'll get one of your brothers to finish it for you'." Sam paused for a moment and suddenly realized something. He let out a loud gasp.

"That's right!" he cried. "I forgot I have to finish that by today! Oh no!"

Sam looked ready to faint any moment, his face drained of any color. He mumbled under his breath for a moment and then tugged nervously on Frodo's shirttail.

"Beggin' your pardon, Mister Frodo, sir," Sam stated timidly. "I can't go with you right now. I really have to finish my job today, otherwise…" Pause. "Otherwise I don't know what'll happen!"

Frodo gave a disappointed yet reassuring smile.

"Well, I don't you to get into any trouble," Frodo said. "I really would have liked to get to know you better, but I guess that can wait until tomorrow."

"Sir!"

Frodo shook Sam's hand one last time before turning around to leave.

"Good-bye, Sam."

Frodo strolled away, leaving Sam standing staring at the place where he was a moment ago. He was unmoving with sheer awe of the situation that just occurred. Then he snapped out of his daze and ran haphazardly back to the hedges, stopping at the weedy flower patch. Swiftly he got back to work, tugging on a weed and running over today's events in his mind.

"I have a new frien—"

He cut himself off before he jumped to any conclusions. He remembered his father's harsh words, "You'll understand someday, lad, that your master's just paying you to work, not to be his friend. Mister Bilbo already has a lot of things to worry about. I don't want to add to it."

Sam grimaced and then pulled on the weed harder. Sometimes he really hated what his dad had to say.

---

Mistress-Samwise: Liked that, didn't ya, huh, huh, didn't ya? You know, sometimes I wake up like that myself: my pillows are five feet across the room and I'm strangled by my blanket. Crazy, ain't it? I liked the part with the little girl, didn't you? Also, I liked what I did with Sam. Hey! I would be jumpy if I met Frodo too!

Let's go over two things: #1.A possible grounding of me is expected, so I might not be able to use the computer in a while. #2. Please keep ranting to a minimum. Thank you. 


	11. Chocolate

_Mistress-Samwise: *runs up breathless* Huff… Puff… I've got a new chapter! I've got a new chapter! No time to say much; I wanted to post this chapter before 12:00 AM on Nov. eighth. And, as it turns out, I'm *not* in as much trouble as I though I was going to be. My mum's expectations of my grades were wrong, and she is actually pleased with a few of them. Except for biology and, get this, English. English! Go figure._

_Okay, I gotta shut up now. *zips lips*_

---

Frodo walked back up to Bag End. He twisted the shining gold doorknob and the door crept open. Frodo chuckled.

"Silly old man…"

Frodo drifted down the halls, searching for evidence of his cousin's presence. Bilbo was nowhere to be found; disappearing completely was a typical Baggins family trait. So Frodo found the opportunity perfect to slink back to his room. Upon doing so, he discovered on his desk a dark lacquered wood box a little over a foot long. Now curious, he opened it up to reveal a simple cherry pipe with a velvet bag containing steel and flint. Stuck to the inside lid was a card covered with Bilbo's spidery handwriting. It read:

_"Happy birthday and welcome to Bag End. –Bilbo"_

Frodo carefully picked up the pipe and examined it.  Even though it was simple, it was well built and fire hardened so it would never catch aflame. He slipped the flint out of its pouch and tumbled it around in his hand.

"If only I had some weed…"

He figured that he wouldn't want to push his luck, so he placed the flint and pipe back. Maybe he could buy some later…

"Oh no!" Frodo cried all of a sudden. "I left all my money at Brandy Hall!"

Frodo kept all of his money in a secret hiding place under the floorboards, but since his move was so sudden, he forgot all about it. Luckily, nobody, or, at least, he thought nobody knew where it was.

"How could I be so stupid?" he yelled at himself. "Merry better not have gotten into it, or I'll shake it out of him!"

Frodo was not prone to spontaneous spending of his money, so he had accumulated quite a bit. If his younger cousin ever broke into it, havoc and mayhem would shortly ensue.

"I must get to it as soon as possible!" Frodo resolved. He thought of going over there himself, being old enough and all, but he quickly realized how unkeen Bilbo would be all about the matter. But until then, he had to devise a way to build up his cash flow again.

"Most likely, Bilbo won't just give me the money," Frodo pointed out to himself as he zigzagged through the hallways in search of his older cousin. He groaned. "Knowing him, I'll probably have to work for all of it, and no easy work at that. Bah!"

But money was always a nice thing to have, especially if you got it from a particularly rich relative who considered you one of his favorites. Being a tweenager was a rather costly affair, and Frodo really needed a sponsor. 

Bilbo had been in the cellars checking the food stores when Frodo approached him.

"Hello, Frodo," Bilbo said cheerfully. "Have you seen the present I left you?"

Frodo nodded.

"Yes," he replied. "And it's about that. You see, I was going to go buy some weed for my new pipe, but it turns out I left all my money at Brandy Hall."

Bilbo just sort of stared at Frodo, and then returned to his work.

"Anyways," Frodo continued. "I thought that maybe I- I mean we… I thought that maybe we can… establish some sort of… system of allowance…?"

Bilbo turned around, smirking.

"Is that so?" the older hobbit stated coolly. "You do realize that you won't be getting any money by just sitting around all day?"

Frodo nodded.

"I suppose I could use some help," Bilbo said thoughtfully. "Starting tomorrow, we'll initiate this 'system' of yours, and depending on how well you do, there just might be some money in it for you."

Frodo smiled at the idea of money and then left Bilbo to his own devices.

"Tweenagers…" Bilbo chuckled to himself. "If he thinks he's getting off easy, he's wrong."

That would certainly prove itself, for the next day, Frodo awoke to the frantic pounding on the door by Bilbo.

"Wake up, Frodo-lad!" he cried from behind the door. "If you don't get up, you won't be able to do any of your chores!"

Frodo, half-awake, groaned and rolled over in his bed.

"Mleh."

"Seriously, Frodo," Bilbo stated. "If you don't get up right now, you can forget about any allowance whatsoever."

With that, Frodo snapped himself up.

"Coming, Bilbo," Frodo said, trying to sound as lively as possible. After dressing and a quick breakfast, he was ushered outside. It was morning; not too late, but not too early. While he was assigned to tie a line between two posts, Bilbo went back inside to fetch something. Frodo waited around, somewhat relieved that his tasks so far where not as hard as he thought. It wasn't long before Bilbo returned, dragging the hearthrug behind him.

"First things first," he stated, straining. "I need you to beat this with this." He pulled a rug beater from out of his pocket and handed it to Frodo. The hobbitlad stared at the wooden rod and then at Bilbo.

"It's actually quite simple," Bilbo continued, brushing himself off. "You just put the rug onto the line (and you made sure you tied it tight, right?) and then whack it until no more dust comes out of it.  Understood?"

Frodo nodded apprehensively.

"And you can get that thing up onto the line yourself," Bilbo said, turning to leave. "My back's bad enough already…"

Frodo waited until Bilbo left to start working. Actually, it wasn't so much work as it was grumbling and swearing. And that was before he got the rug onto the line. But once he did, getting it clean was another thing. It was quite an amusing spectacle; a small hobbitlad striking a rug with a beater, using both hands, of course, with the occasional swear.

"Why… Won't… You… Get… Clean!" he cried, administering a few more thwacks before the rug fatefully slipped of the line onto the ground. He growled, grasping at his head. "Graaahhh! I need a bloody cricket bat to clean this thing!"

He got the rug back onto the line and was in the process of whacking it a bit little more when he stopped suddenly. Feeling like he was being watched, he slowly looked over his shoulder and jumped in surprise.

"Ah!" he cried. "What are you doing!?"

"What?" Sam replied defensively.

"You snuck up behind me!"

"I did…? I'm sorry, Mister- Mister…"

"Frodo."

"Yes… Sorry Mister Frodo."

Frodo sighed and smiled.

"You don't need to keep apologizing for everything."

Sam opened his mouth, and was about to say something when Frodo cut him off.

"And please don't apologize about apologizing! "

Sam looked very hurt, his wide brown eyes unblinking. Frodo couldn't help keep a straight face at this spectacle.

"Oh, come on," he cajoled. "I didn't hurt you that badly, did I?"

"No, sir," Sam mumbled.

"Lighten up!" Frodo slapped Sam on the back. "You're still just a kid."

Sam lowered his eyes at that and shuffled about in place nervously. Frodo found this a good time to change the subject.

"What are you doing out here so early?" Frodo asked.

"It's my job, sir," Sam answered. "I start early so then I don't have to work during the evenin'."

Frodo sighed, rubbing the bottom of his back.

"Look, I don't know about you," Frodo said while massaging his hands. "But I really need a break. Care to join me?"

Sam squeaked and shook his head furiously.

"I swear, Sam," Frodo grinned. "You're such a stiff."

Sam blinked.

"You have to be not working sometime, right?" Frodo inquired incredulously. "There are some grown-ups I know who don't work as long as you!"

Sam blinked. Frodo made a rather amusing noise in response.

"Seriously, all work and no play makes Samwise a dull boy."

Sam blinked. Frodo tried to keep his smile, but it quickly melted away.

"You really know how to mess with people's minds, don't you?"

Sam blinked, and then smiled wryly. Frodo frowned.

"I… see…" Frodo said eventually. "Well, I suppose I'll just being going now…"

Frodo turned and walked off. Sam stood there like after the first time he met Frodo, but then gave a muffled yelp. Frodo stopped and turned around again.

"Yes?"

Sam didn't say anything. Frodo blinked, and walked off again. Sam emitted another mew, causing Frodo to snap himself around.

"What? What is it?" Frodo asked, now a little peeved. Sam thought it best to respond.

"I was thinkin', sir… that I would… if I could join you…?"

Frodo grinned widely.

"Now that's all I've been asking for!" Frodo cried, throwing up his arms. "I was thinking of taking a stroll. Would you like that?"

Sam nodded his head nervously. The two then started walking. For a while, neither said anything. Frodo was just idly looking around, his hands in his pockets. Sam, on the other hand, struggled to keep up with the elder hobbit's long strides. Even though it was morning, Frodo and his companion still received stares from whoever was nearby. Frodo just ignored it. Sam, on the other hand, apprehensively crept up to Frodo, shrinking away from the eyes on him.

"Mister Frodo…" he squeaked. "They're starin'…"

"Oh, they always do that," Frodo replied absentmindedly. "You learn to ignore it after a while."

Sam said nothing. He looked up at Frodo; his blue eyes seemed very deep and serene. This in turn caused Sam to relax a little.

It wasn't long before the two found themselves wandering down a small rural road. The sun was higher in the sky now, the center to be exact, and the weather was beautiful. Summer was just about over, but everything still seemed as lazy as it's ever been. Many minutes, or even hours, it was hard to tell, passed before they came to a stop in a small meadow.

"Let's stop here a moment," Frodo requested, sitting down the lush green grass. Sam quickly followed, and soon the two were scanning the landscape. Off in the distance, Bag End rose slightly above the rest of Bag Shot Row. Farm fields full of wheat caught in the breeze sent golden ripples across the countryside. Reaching into his pocket, Frodo drew out a small, square package. Sam looked over curiously.

            "What's that, Mister Frodo?" he asked timidly.

            "I found this in the pantry," Frodo replied, tearing the unusually ornate paper away. "It's called chocolate."

            Frodo broke off a piece and handed it to Sam. The small hobbitlad's eyes shone wide with wonder, doing nothing but stare at the candy in his fist.

            "Go ahead, Sam," Frodo grinned. "Try some. It's really good."

            Still, Sam did nothing.

            "Here, it's best if you let it melt on your tongue." Frodo took a bite out of the corner of his piece and sucked on it until it dissolved away. Sam looked at his chocolate, and then at Frodo.

            "Go on," Frodo chuckled. Slowly, Sam nibbled on the end of the candy and allowed it to set on his tongue. He blushed in delight as the sugar trickled down the back of his throat and he made a small mew.

            "Oh!"

            Frodo let out a hearty laugh.

            "Good, isn't it? Bilbo says that the stuff it's made of comes all the way from a land far, far south, near Far Harad."

            Sam looked at Frodo, puzzled.

            "You know where Gondor is?" Frodo asked.

            Sam blinked.

            "No, of course you don't…" Frodo muttered. "Here… Have more chocolate."

For what seemed like hours, the two hobbitlads thoughtfully finished their candy. Idly, Frodo closed his eyes and let out a sigh as he fell over onto back to bask in the sun. Sam did nothing, silently staring at the elder hobbitlad's peaceful face.

_He looks like an elf…_

"Mister Frodo?" Sam said, barely louder than a whisper, breaking the silence. Frodo opened his eyes and looked over at the small hobbitlad. Sam nervously shifted his gaze off of Frodo.

"Why are you doing this?" Sam continued.

Frodo leaned up onto his elbows.

"Doing what?"

Sam drew his knees to his chest, hugging them tightly.

"Why are you trying to do all these things with me?"

"I don't know…" Frodo paused, deep in thought. "You seem to be a very interesting person to me."

Sam replied with a wordless stare.

"I just thought that maybe we could be friends," Frodo said. Sam let out a small gasp, but quickly clasped his hands to his mouth. Embarrassed, he hid his face in his knees.

"What's wrong, Sam?" Frodo asked worriedly. "Was it something I said?"

Sam shook his head.

"No. It's just…" Sam paused, his face burning furiously. "It's just… I've never had a friend before, Mister Frodo."

"Oh, Sam…" Frodo smiled gently. "If that is what it is, then why are you so upset?"

Sam was reluctant to answer.

"Me Gaffer said that it's not proper for a master to be friends with his servant."

Frodo didn't know what to say. His arm hovered over the small huddled ball of a hobbitlad, but he tentatively drew it back.

"I wouldn't be mad if you were my friend," Frodo cajoled.

"It's not that…" Sam replied softly. "I want to be friends with you… But I can't…"

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

Frodo furrowed his brow in worry.

"I… I…" Frodo lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"There's no need for that, sir."

Even though he had only known him for a short period of time, Frodo had already figured out that you couldn't win with Samwise Gamgee. Before anything else could go wrong, he decided to go back.

"Maybe we should go," Frodo suggested. Sam wearily nodded his head in agreement and the two stood up to leave. All the way home, neither had said anything to each other. Sam found himself again dropping behind Frodo again. He had barely noticed he had as he gloomily shuffled along with his hands stuffed in his pockets and his gaze fixed on the ground.

_It ain't fair… It just ain't no fair…_

Frodo, on the other hand, had thoughts about how much trouble he'd be in when Bilbo found out he didn't finish cleaning the rug.

_One simple thing, Frodo Baggins, and you can't even do tha—_

"Where'd Sam go?"

Frodo stopped dead in his tracks and looked around. Sam was nowhere to be seen.

"Damn it," Frodo grumbled to himself. "This is not good… This is not good at all…"

_Oh, bravo, genius! Another magnificent achievement from the great and mighty Frodo Baggins!_

Frodo jogged back from where he coming, but there was no sign of Sam.

"Sam!" he called. "Sam! Where are you?"

Just then, a small, ginger-headed blur ran past. Frodo turned around quickly.

"Sam! Wait!"

But Sam did not stop, but instead kept running, his step not even faltered by cries ringing out from behind him.

"Slow down! Sam! Sam—" Frodo watched as the hobbitlad disappeared around the corner. "Oh, Sam… Please…"

Frodo dashed ahead, trying to catch up.

"Please wait, Sam!" Frodo cried. "What's the matter?"

"Leave me alone," Sam said, trying not to yell. Frodo slowed to a stop.

"I'm—" Frodo started, but dropped his voice in vain. "… sorry."

Sam almost stopped to throw a glance over his shoulder. Instead he ran a little faster for he could not bring himself to look at Frodo.

"No, Mister Frodo…" he whispered. Hot tears ran down his face, and he scrubbed them away angrily. Soon he disappeared from Frodo's sight again, but, this time, the elder hobbit did not attempt to find him again. Frodo let out an aggravated sigh and slowly strolled back to Bag End, all the while going over the previous events in his mind. Already everything was so complicated. He just wanted a friend, someone to talk to. He just wanted to stop being so _alone. He wanted the innocence that was taken from him so long ago. Sam was only a child, but already, it seemed, he was losing his. It broke Frodo's heart to see this... Sam was so much younger than him when he lost his innocence. It wasn't right._

Of course, when he got back, Frodo received a tongue-lashing of sorts from Bilbo, and he was then forced to wash all of the evening meal's dishes.

"Ugg…" Frodo sighed as he lazily scrubbed away at the china. The warm, soap-filled dishwater caused his mind to wander.

_I wonder how Sam's doing…_

Frodo empowered himself to finish the dishes, and, eventually he did. Grabbing his coat from the coat hook next to the door, he slipped on over his shoulders.

"Bilbo," he called down the hall. "I'm going out for a moment."

Frodo waited a moment. There came no response. So, silently he slipped out through the front door into the twilight.

Briskly, Frodo strolled down the path of Bag Shot Row, the pale moon and starlight illuminating his way. Candles and lamps twinkled from behind smial windows in the distance, some being put out for the night. Blue smoke curled from the chimneys that dotted the hillsides, sending scents of burning firewood and home-cooked meals floating through the crisp air. Nighttime was one of Frodo's favorite things about living in the Shire.

Soon he came to a stop in front of the Gamgees' house. Even though it was dark out, he could still see the lively colors of the flowers. Quietly, he passed through the gate to arrive at the front door. Gently knocking on it, he was answered by a cheerful-looking hobbitlady, her auburn curls burning in the candlelight spilling from inside.

"Hello," she piped up beamingly. "How may I help you, young master?"

"Ah, yes," Frodo said, taking a small bow. "I'm Frodo Baggins. I moved in with Bilbo just the other day."

"Oh, you're the Buckland lad, aren't you?" the hobbitlady inquired. "I'm Bell Gamgee. How may I be of service to you?"

"I just wanted to see how young Samwise is doing," Frodo replied, leaning over slightly to peek inside the smial. Just then, a gruff-looking hobbitsire appeared in the doorway behind Bell.

"What's going on, Bell-love?" the hobbitsire questioned his wife.

"This is Frodo Baggins, Hamfast," Bell introduced the hobbitlad. Hamfast gave Frodo a quick look-over, eyeing him with slight suspicion.

"So this is Frodo, eh?" Hamfast paused. "What do you want?"

"I wanted to know how Sam is doing," Frodo answered, a little fazed from the hobbitsire's firm stare.

"Sam-lad is not available right now," Hamfast replied almost instantaneously. "It's best if you just leave… Now, off with ye."

Before Frodo could even mumble a polite thank-you-anyway, the door was shut in front of him, leaving him a rather confused look on his face. He shrugged and walked away.

"Now, now…" Bell squeaked. "That was not very nice."

"I don't need anymore trouble for tonight," Hamfast grumbled, turning to march away down the hall. Bell sighed.

"Oh, Hamfast…" she whispered to herself. "Why won't you leave the poor lads alone?"

Bell silently locked the door again and shuffled off to continue comforting her heart-broken son.

---

_Mistress-Samwise: Alrighty-then. Don't you just *love* Sam?! I do! Squee!  And please, please, PLEASE check out the 110% new layout of my website!!! I changed EVERYTHING! It's SO COOL!!! http;//www.lordoftherings.siteid.net . That's all for now._


	12. No Fair

Mistress-Samwise: Bwah-hah-hah! *sing-song* Less than a month 'til my birthday! Huzzah! *grins* (it's on December twelfth, and I'm gonna be seeing TTT on the Friday after it comes out in celebration) Anywho, I'm being overrun with plot bunnies for this story and I just don't know how to plant them into the storyline! Oy. I've got, what, *counts on fingers* four or some big, big ideas that I know you'll love. But I've got a whole crud-load of things to do (like a biology project tonight),  so I'll see what I can do.

Oh, yeah… I've also been watching Neon Genesis Evangelion with my friend Ed. You're asking "So?". *slowly* It's Eva. Eh-vah. 'Nuff said. Anywho, here's the story.

---

Frodo returned home quickly, hoping Bilbo hadn't noticed his absence. He opened the front door, and jumped in surprise to see Bilbo standing behind it.

"Gah!"

"Where were you?" the elder hobbit asked quizzically, his arms folded across his chest. Frodo smiled nervously.

"I was just getting some fresh air."

Bilbo stared suspiciously at Frodo for a moment and then sighed.

"At least you finished the dishes."

He turned and walked away, disappearing off again like he always did. Frodo quietly made himself some tea before he crept off to his room. After stoking the fire, he brought his chair in front of the glowing hearth and silently drank his tea. Eventually, he could drink no more, and idly swirled the tea, his slender fingers wrapped around the cool pottery. The fireplace crackled, sending sparks floating up the flue. Frodo began to nod off as the warm glow caressed his face and he soon fell asleep.

_Sam…_

Morning came again. Frodo awoke to a terrible crick in his neck.

"Oh, great…"

While he was off tending his sore neck, a knock came to the door.

"Frodo?" Bilbo called from behind the door. "Are you awake?"

"Yes, Bilbo— Owwww…" Frodo winced as he turned his head in a very wrong direction. "Just give me—Ah…! A moment…"

Slowly he rose up from the chair, being sure not to move his head more than he needed to. He picked out on of his favorite cotton shirts and carefully buttoned it up. After slipping on a new pair of trousers, he left his room for the kitchen. Bilbo had just finished making breakfast, and was setting it out onto the table.

"Hullo, Bilbo," Frodo said, massaging his neck.

"Good morning," Bilbo replied. "What's the matter?"

"Ugg… My neck…" Frodo sharply drew in his breath as he twisted his neck. "Ow! I fell asleep in the chair last night."

Bilbo smiled.

"Ah, yes. I barely ever use my bed at all. Maybe what you need is a new chair. A nice, big comfy one."

Frodo grinned beamingly.

"Really, Uncle Bilbo?"

"Not if you don't do your chores."

Frodo winced.

"Oh… I forgot about that."

"Remember our little agreement? No work, no pay."

"Yes…"

"It was your idea in the first place, you know."

"I know, I know."

After breakfast, Frodo was assigned the task of chopping firewood.

"Now, most of it has already been chopped," Bilbo stated, handing Frodo a small hatchet. "All you need to do is cut them into smaller pieces."

"They look small enough to me," Frodo pointed out.

"No," Bilbo said. "Now get chopping."

Frodo grumbled under his breath as Bilbo left to go inside.

"Lousy bugger…"

Frodo took a swing at the piece of wood and managed to cut its corner off.

"Oh, huzzah," he spat sarcastically. "How charming."

Carefully, he took aim and swung at it again, this time splitting it in two.

"Now, that's better!"

Gradually, the pile of firewood grew and grew, and he was soon finished. Wiping his brow, he sat down on the chopping block to rest. For a while, all he did was sit and think, something he was really good at.

_Ah… If only I was being paid for this…_

         Frodo's lazy reverie was broken as a huffy Sam stormed past, disappearing into the gardens.

         "Hey, Sam!" Frodo called, standing up again. "Wait up!"

         There came no response. Frodo decided to fish out the young hobbitlad himself.

         "Oh, come on," Frodo pleaded, trailing behind Sam. "What's the matter?"

         "I'm not allowed to talk with you," Sam replied sharply, not even looking at Frodo.

         "Look, if it's about yesterday, the whole thing's my fault."

         Sam said nothing, but rather let out an aggravated humph.

         "Sam," Frodo said, sounding quite aggravated himself. "What's the matter?"

         "Nothing," Sam spat. "Now, leave me alone."

         Frodo paused in his tracks for a moment.

         "_Eru help me…" he mumbled under his breath. He then walked a little faster, trying to catch up with Sam._

         "I'm sorry about yesterday, Sam," Frodo stated. "I hope I didn't get you in any trouble."

         Sam came to a dead halt and twirled around to throw a nasty glance at Frodo. Promptly, he turned around again and continued marching off again. Frodo growled annoyingly.

         "Oh, for the love of…"

         "Don't you have anything more important to do, Mister Frodo?" Sam inquired stingingly. "I have a lot of things to do, an' the sooner I get to 'um, the sooner they'll be done."

         Frodo was wordless with surprise at Sam's sudden change in attitude. This was not like him at all.

         "Please, Sam… Tell me what's wrong!"

         "It ain't none of your business, sir," Sam said, his voice trembling slightly. "Besides, I'm not even suppose' to be speakin' to you."

         Frodo had the sudden urge to yell at Sam why he was still doing so, but he restrained himself.

         "I see I caught you at a bad time—"

         "Yes, now leave me alone!"

         With that, Sam ran off, leaving behind a very dumbfounded Frodo.

         _That was… odd._

         Frodo decided that he would attempt conversation with Sam later. Until then, he had to straighten out all his chores. Once he got back to the chopping block, he gathered up all the firewood and carried it back to Bag End. Finding himself unable to open the door, what with his hands completely filled, he crawled up to an open window.

         "Bilbo!" he cried through the empty windowpane. "I'm finished chopping wood now. Could you get the door?"

         "Why can't you get it yourself?" Bilbo asked, his voice emanating somewhere within the smial.

         "My hands are full."

         Bilbo grumbled and left to open the front door.

         "Did you get all of it done?" Bilbo inquired once Frodo was inside.

         "Yes," the hobbitlad replied. "Where should I put all this?"

         "Oh, right beside the fireplace."

         After placing the wood down, Frodo dusted himself off and straightened out his shirt.

         "Hey, Uncle Bilbo," Frodo said, picking a splinter out of his shirt cuff. "Is Sam always grumpy in the morning?"

         "Hmm?" Bilbo thought for a moment. "No… I wondered when you would meet young Samwise."

         "I have already taken the liberty," Frodo stated.

         "Charming young lad, isn't he?"

         "Right…"

         "He reminds me of you, when you were small. How you always used to be so delighted to hear one of my adventure stories. He's very fascinated with the elves, you know."

         "Really? I don't blame him, but my favorite part of your stories was always the dragon." Frodo then grinned widely. "Anybody can meet an elf, but only my Uncle Bilbo can come face to face with a real live dragon."

         "That's right, my lad," Bilbo laughed, slapping Frodo on the back. "And don't you forget that."

         "Don't worry. I won't."

         "Now, run along there, Frodo-lad, and I'll tell you if I think of any more chores for you to do."

         Frodo smiled and nodded and hoped that Bilbo would forget to do that.

         It was mid-afternoon, and Frodo has decided to wander about Hobbiton. He passed by the market, wishing that he had some of his money with him. Occasionally, he would stop beside the road and just lean against the fence post, thinking. Sometimes he would be very bored, but one thing that never failed to keep him occupied was sitting down and having a nice, long thought.

         _I wonder how everybody at Brandy Hall is doing…_

         Whenever he thought of his family he left behind, he would always feel a slight pang of loneliness. Bilbo was his only family now. Frodo sighed, and continued walking.

         Frodo was always alone. Friends were usually always just acquaintances, and there's only so much trouble you can get into with your younger cousin until you both tire of each other's company. Be that as it may, Frodo was never truly lonely, but there were moments when he felt like there was nobody left to care about him. His anger had driven everyone away, and he hoped that moving to Hobbiton would give him a fresh start. Nobody there would already know about his temper, so they would be more willing to get to know him. He didn't want to hurt anybody this time. And that included Sam. Sam seemed so young, so pure, and Frodo was not about to hurt him with his anger.

         Frodo resolved to reconcile with the lad once he got to Bag End. He couldn't stand to lose his only friend in Hobbiton just because of a silly argument.

         Once he arrived back at home, Frodo sought out Sam. It wasn't long until he found the hobbitlad burrowing out a small trench around a flowerbed. Frodo silently crept up behind him.

         "What's that you're doing?"

         "Diggin'," Sam replied. Frodo breathed a sigh of relief; Sam seemed to have calmed down.

         "What for?" Frodo inquired.

         "Da says it's going to rain soon, and this helps keep the flowers from drownin'."

         Frodo stood there a while, his hands clasped behind his back, watching Sam dig out the shallow trench. Suddenly, Sam stopped and scratched his head thoughtfully.

         "Hmmm…"

         He sat and pondered for a minute, and then turned to Frodo.

         "I just remembered that I'm not supposed to talk to you anymore," Sam stated plainly.

         Frodo furrowed his brow quizzically.

         "Why is that?"

         "Me Gaffer told me not to," Sam said matter-of-factly.

         Frodo said nothing.

         "It's not proper for me to talk to you. He said that we're not equals."

         "Oh, Sam!" Frodo cried. "That's not true!"

         "No." Sam shook his head. "I'm not entitled to such things."

         Frodo felt his heart break.

         _Poor Sam… If only he knew what he was saying… These are clearly his father's words…_

         There were so many things Frodo wanted to explain to Sam, but he was afraid of saying the wrong thing. What if the Gaffer was right and Frodo wasn't? What if Sam and Frodo couldn't be friends?

         "Why did your father tell you that?" Frodo asked, his voice toned with worry.

         "Well, Mister Frodo…" Sam began counting out on his fingers. "That's what his dad told 'im, an' he got it from his dad, an' his dad before that—"

         "I get your point," Frodo stated politely. Frodo paused for a moment. "You don't… really believe all that… Do you?"

         Sam lowered his eyes, staring nervously at the ground as he dusted the dirt off his hands.

         "Mister Frodo… I… I don't know…"

         "Look, Sam… I can't tell you what to believe…" Frodo leaned over and looked into Sam's eyes. "And you don't even need your father telling you what to believe. All I'm asking is that you listen to your heart."

         Sam felt Frodo's gaze fall deep, striking a chord far within him. There was much sincerity and emotion in those shining blue eyes, though Sam could still not bring himself to look upon them. Behind all the feeling was something deeper, something more profound, something far bigger than he could even begin to comprehend, and his eyes strayed from Frodo's in humility… and a sense of fear. The elder hobbitlad understood, simply and wholly, and without explanation. He turned around and left Sam to finish his job. For a long time, Sam worked wordlessly, and he worked until it lost all meaning. He tossed the trowel aside and bunched his shirt cuff in his fist.

         "It ain't fair…" he murmured, drawing his cuff across his tear-filled eyes. "It ain't fair…"

         Sam was sure to scrub away all the tears on his face, for he certainly didn't want his father to see that he had been crying.

---

Mistress-Samwise: Awww… Poor Sam. It gets better. Now, if you excuse me, I have to go off and convince my mom that I've been working on my biology project. Tah.


	13. Writing Lesson

Mistress-Samwise: HOLY CRAP!!! What the shat am I doing?! UPDATING!?  
Yes, my lovelies, I am updating. I (sort of) revived this story, and I found it necessary to add a few chapters before I put up the first half of this other story of mine. Maybe, if youse guys are insistent upon it, I'll continue on this one (I've put it back on hiatus, but there's a few more chapters before it stops).  
Light, fluffy chapter now, a super angsty one next. Stay tuned for that.

---

            The following day proved to be as pleasant as the last, if not even more so. A soft breeze blew in on Frodo as he sat behind his desk in his study. Fortunately, he had not been assigned any chores, so he decided to catch up on some much needed reading. Though he wasn't reading per se, more like daydreaming, another vice of his. All of a sudden, a sandy-colored head poked in through the window.

            "Mister Frodo?"

            "Gah!"

            "Sorry, sir…"

            "That's alright, Sam." Frodo threw the curtains completely aside. "Come on in."

            Sam looked at Frodo quizzically.

            "I'm not so sure about that, sir…"

            "You don't need to worry about it. Here… I'll help you."

            Frodo climbed up onto the desk and plucked the hobbitlad from out of the bushes, setting him down onto the floor.

            "See?" Frodo grinned. "Easy as that."

            "I see what you mean, Mister Frodo," Sam replied confusedly.

            "So… Is there anything I can do for you?" Frodo asked, crawling off his desk sitting back into his chair again.

            "Well… Yes…" Sam paused and fiddled with the rim of his tunic nervously. "You see, Mister Frodo… I was wonderin' if you could…"

            "Yes?"

            "I was wonderin' if you could… teach me how to read?"

            Frodo's eyes lit up.

            "I've been waiting to hear that ever since I first met you! There's nothing else I would like to do!"

            "Really, sir?"

            "Yes! Now, do you know how to write?"

            "Not really, sir."

            "Well, it would certainly help things. Let's see if we can get you something to write on."

            Frodo then left the room and shortly returned with a slate and chalk. He laid it down onto the desk, but pulled out a sheet of paper and his quill.

            "It seems like Bilbo has written on here already, but if we want to use it, I'll have to transfer everything onto paper."

            Sam peered over at the slate. There were jumbles of numbers, he knew that, but Bilbo had written "Do not erase" and Sam couldn't read that. Frodo had already started to write all the figuring out onto the paper, his wispy handwriting quickly filling the page. Sam was wordless with wonder as he watched the quill flick back and forth, forming beautiful ink letters.

            "See, Sam?" Frodo said while gently blowing on the wet ink. "With practice, you can write like this. Of course, we have to start on printing first."

            Frodo drew his sleeve across the slate and cleared away the numbers. He delicately took the chalk into is hand and wrote out "Frodo".

            "This is my name," he stated. "See? F-R-O-D-O." He then wrote out Sam's name. "And this is yours, S-A-M." He handed the chalk to Sam. "Can you write that?"

            Sam struggled to find a proper way to hold the chalk.

            "Oh, sir… How do I hold this right?"

            "Hold it between your thumb and first two fingers while letting it tip back a bit. There you go."

            Sam slowly wrote out the "S", followed by the "A" and "M".

            "Is that right, Mister Frodo?"

            "Yes. Now here's the hard part… Memorizing the alphabet."

            Sam blinked.

            "There are twenty-six letters that help make up every word we use. They are called, collectively, the alphabet." Frodo wrote out all the letters and Sam stared at them in amazement.

            "I have to memorize all of them?"

            "Yes, but it helps trying them out first. Go ahead and start writing."

            Sam gulped and nervously took the chalk to the slate. His wiry handwriting tapered off after a few letters. Frodo frowned.

            "Here…"

            Frodo gently placed his hand over Sam's and carefully guided the hobbitlad as he wrote. Sam was very silent, blushing slightly as he felt Frodo's fingers curl over his own. 

            "You'll see it gets easier after some practice."

            Sam nodded in acknowledgement. For many minutes, Frodo helped him trace out the letters over and over. It wasn't long until Bilbo knocked on the door.

            "Frodo?" he asked. "It's afternoon tea. You want to know how to properly prepare tea for once?"

            "Now, Uncle Bilbo, I don't think I will dignify that with a reply. Anyways, I'm busy."

            "What with?"

            "I'm teaching Sam how to write."

            Bilbo entered the room. He quickly eyed the lads and then turned to Frodo.

            "Frodo, can I talk to you a moment?"

            Frodo nodded and looked to Sam, who stared back in a puzzled manner. Frodo stood up to leave the room with Bilbo. They both stepped into the kitchen.

            "Now, Frodo-lad," Bilbo said. "I know you're trying to help Sam, but his father won't approve, so I can't allow you to continue the lesson."

            "But Bilbo—"

            "It's not my decision. I've tried teaching his older brothers, but Hamfast didn't let me doing so. And I must respect his decisions."

            Frodo said nothing. He knew he could not speak to Bilbo about it, and he definitely didn't want to get Sam into any trouble. It just seemed a shame. He was such a bright, young lad…

            "At least let me talk to his father," Frodo pleaded. "I'm sure I can get him to listen to me."

            "I won't have any of that," Bilbo replied. "It's a very messy business talking to that fellow. If you are so insistent upon, I'll try reasoning with him. But I'm not promising anything."

            Frodo nodded in acknowledgement.

            "Why don't you go do something else with Sam?" Bilbo proposed. "I'll sort this out as soon as I can."

            When Frodo returned to the study, he found Sam slowly navigating the piece of chalk across the slate.

            "See Mister Frodo?" Sam stated cheerfully while holding up the slate for Frodo to see. "It's my name!"

            Sure enough, the small hobbitlad had successfully spelled his name out. Frodo leaned over next to him, trying to smile while he spoke.

            "That's very good work, Sam, but I think you would much rather do something else."

            Sam cocked his head.

            "Like what, Mister Frodo?"

            "Uhm…" Frodo had to think fast. "Let's… Go outside. It's very nice."

            "Oh," Sam said, slightly disheartened. He really wanted to learn how to write. "Alright."

            Frodo lead Sam out into the hallway. Sam lagged behind, gaping at the ornate woodwork that decorated the walls. He then stood still in wonderment.

            "Mister Frodo?" Sam asked all of a sudden. "May I see your room, please, sir?"

            Frodo turned around.

            "You certainly may." Frodo added a smile. He walked a little bit down the corridor and opened one of the doors. "Right here."

            At first, Sam stood there while Frodo was holding the door open for him. It took him a while to realize the gesture. He quickly stepped in and Frodo softly closed the door behind himself. Sam looked around the room. It wasn't particularly fancy, aside from a dresser and desk made of deep brown wood. While he scanned the many possessions that were lying upon it, Frodo flopped himself onto his bed. 

            "Just tell me when you're ready to leave, alright?" Frodo inquired while shutting his eyes. Sam nodded vaguely and leaned up further to examine the dresser. On it were numerable trinkets, including an elaborate pocketknife, empty inkwell, and an ivory comb. His eyes suddenly lit up and he struggled to reach for one of the items. He managed to grasp it and pull it down from the dresser. It was a stone rabbit, dark navy blue, and unusually heavy. Bunching his sleeve cuff in his hand, he carefully shined the smooth stone until it gleamed brightly. Frodo idly opened one of his eyes to see what the hobbitlad was doing.

            "Don't touch that!" Frodo exclaimed suddenly. He swiftly got up from his bed and pulled the rabbit from Sam's grasp. Then he delicately settled it back onto the dresser.

            "I'm sorry, sir," Sam apologized worryingly. "I didn't know…"

            "Please ask before you go touching my things," Frodo stated sternly.

            "I'm sorry," Sam murmured softly, hanging his head. Frodo looked at Sam and frowned.

            "No, I'm sorry," Frodo said. "I shouldn't have been so rude." Frodo took Sam's hand. "Come on."

            Sam nodded and followed Frodo out of the room. Once outside, they turned onto the road and continued down it for some time.

            "Sir?" Sam asked timidly. "Where are we going?"

            "Good question," Frodo replied. "You know what? I hadn't really thought about that. You don't happen to have any ideas yourself?"

            Sam shook his head. Frodo sighed.

            "Oh, well… I'm sure there's plenty we can do."

            Meanwhile, Bilbo had left Bag End for the Gamgees'. He approached the front yard and found the gate open. Sitting outside the front door was Hamson, the oldest of the Gamgee children. He was thoughtfully smoking on a pipe.

            "Good afternoon, Hamson," Bilbo said cheerfully.

            "Oh, good afternoon, sir," Hamson replied politely.

            "Is your father home?" Bilbo inquired. "I wish to speak to him."

            "He's inside."

            "Thank you."

            Bilbo knocked on the door. A few moments later, it was answered by Hamfast.

            "Hello, Mister Bilbo," Hamfast greeted his master. "I was just about to have tea." He swung the door open. "Come in."

            Once Hamfast had finished serving the tea, he sat down opposite Bilbo.

            "Now, what was it you wanted to discuss?" he asked, tapping the last few drops of tea off his spoon.

            "It's about Samwise."

            Hamfast looked up from his mug at the mention of his son's name.

            "What about 'im?" he asked skeptically.

            "Your son is good lad, Hamfast," Bilbo said after taking a sip of his tea. "I've seen your other sons and daughters grow up, but Sam is different. He is a very sweet boy. But what's more important is that he is providing my nephew much-needed companionship—"

            "Just what are you trying to say?" Hamfast interrupted impatiently.

            "What I am trying to say is that your son wants to learn how to read," Bilbo answered plainly.

            "We've had this discussion before, Mister Bilbo, and you know what the answer is." Hamfast leaned forward. "I don't want you going and teaching my son."

            "I wasn't the one teaching him," Bilbo replied. "It was Frodo."

            "Your nephew has gotten Sam into enough trouble already. Not only is he distracting him from his work, but now he thinks he doesn't even need to do it anymore."

            "He's just a child, Hamfast. Why won't you understand that?"

            "With all respect, Mister Bilbo, I don't think I need you telling me what to do with my own son. You're not the father here."

            "I am not trying to offend you. You know that."

            "I don't need my children going off and learning how to read and write. The older I get, the harder it is for me to do my job. I am counting on my children to help me put food on the table. If they're not doing their jobs, Bell and I are in big trouble. Please, Mister Bilbo. I appreciate your willingness to help, but it'll only make things worse."

            "I know you want what's best for your children, but they can't stay gardeners for the rest of their lives. Eventually, one of them will have to move on. There still is time for Sam."

            "I don't want to tell you again, sir."

            "All I'm asking is to give him a chance. Then if you find it too bothersome, I'll have no problem with stopping the lessons. But if you do, you would then have your son to deal with."

            Hamfast grunted.

            "If you are so bloody insistent upon it… But I will not have your nephew teaching him. Is that clear?"

            Bilbo silently sighed.

            "Yes."

            He then stood up to leave.

            "I apologize for any inconvenience," Bilbo stated. "You're a good friend, Hamfast, but I know neither of us like having this arguments."

            Hamfast said nothing.

            "Good afternoon," Bilbo said while turning around and walking away. Once outside, he carefully closed the door behind him.

            "Knowing Sam, this was probably all his idea," Hamfast grumbled under his breath.

---

Mistress-Samwise: Lah-tee-dah. Check out my website or suffer the consequences. radd.heavenspit.com  (there is no www. in front!) Also, be sure to check out my other quality stories. Stay tuned for another chapter in Jaded sometime soon, too.


	14. Scars

Mistress-Samwise: Me… Again… Yay

Wait! "Yay" because of me, or "yay" because there's some uber-cool angst coming up in this chapter? 

That's right, kiddies! And, for added effect, read this chapter, and go back to chapter nine and read the part when Saradoc is complaining to Frodo about messing around with the penknife. I did **_not_** come up with that part after this one! That means I didn't even _think of_ this chapter way back then. It's really freaky how it all fits together. Believe me, I was totally freaked when I realized that.  
Anywho, read and have fun. I know Frodo did. *_evil grin_*

---

        "Mister Frodo?" Sam asked wearily, trailing behind the tweenager. "Can we stop? We've been walking for ages…"

        "You're right," Frodo concurred. "I am getting a little tired."

        They had been walking for quite some time, adjacent to the Water.  Sam flopped himself underneath a tree.

        "I thought we were going to do something," Sam said.

        "We are," Frodo replied, sitting beside Sam.

        "Pardon me, sir, but I don't think walking is too much of something."

        "It's a nice day out."

        "It's also hot. Are you sure you didn't have anything else in mind instead of walking?"

        Frodo shook his head and fell over onto his back, pushing his sleeves up. He then closed his eyes. Sam sighed.

        "We went all the way out here so you could take a nap?"

        "Why not?" Frodo yawned and stretched his arms. Sam caught sight of several thin, pale lines on Frodo's left wrist before he put his arms behind his head. Sam blinked and furrowed his brow in confusion.

        "Sir?" Sam quietly asked after a few moments.

        "Hmm?"

        "Sir…? What were those marks on your wrist?"

        Frodo's eyes snapped open in astonishment. Swiftly he pulled his left hand from out behind his head and sat up. He stared at his wrist for a split second, his eyes wide with shock.

        "Damn it…"

        He tore his sleeve back over his wrist, quickly concealing it again. His face was slightly flushed as he breathed heavily. Sam was very surprised.

        "Mister Frodo…?"

        "It's nothing!" Frodo exclaimed hurriedly while hiding his arm behind his back. "Just ignore that, alright?"

        "I-I'm sorry, sir," Sam stammered nervously. "I-I didn't know…"

        Frodo looked into Sam's worried brown eyes and sighed.

        "I shouldn't have yelled at you like that," Frodo stated while pulling his nails out of his wrist. Reluctantly, he drew his arm from behind his back and massaged his wrist. "I was foolish back then, and I still am now."

        "Sir?"

        Slowly, Frodo pushed his sleeve cuff back.

        "These are scars," he said, tentatively tracing his fingers over them.

        "Scars?" Sam murmured, his eyes wide as saucers. "How did you get them?"

        "I did these to myself…" Frodo lowered his eyes shamefully. "… But not by accident."

        Both Sam and Frodo were silent for a moment.

        "I'll understand if you don't want to talk about it," Sam told the elderhobbit. Frodo shook his head.

        "I probably should talk about it," Frodo answered softly. "I never really told anyone about them, or how I got them. It's… not easy. I try to think I'm different than what I was so long ago, but no matter how hard I do try, there's always something left to remind me of what a fool I was."

***

        A seventeen year-old Frodo sat alone in his room at Brandy Hall. It was his cousin Merry's birthday, and Frodo had not decided to join the rest of his family for the evening celebration. Instead, he was moping alone in the dark.

        Lying facedown in his bed, he grumbled incoherently and turned to look at the ceiling.

        "Bah."

        He absent-mindedly fished around in his bed stand drawer for something to fiddle with. His hand grazed many familiar objects, including one of several penknives that he kept. Deciding there was nothing better, he pulled the knife out, slumped over onto his belly again and began scratching away at the bottom off the bedpost. Then a knock came to the door.

        "Frodo?" Saradoc called from behind the door. "Frodo? Are you even awake?"

        Frodo audibly grumbled. Saradoc stepped into the room. The light from the hallway weakly illuminated the dark room. Through the shadows, Saradoc could barely make out Frodo shaving at the bedpost with his penknife.

        "I'm not going to ask you again," Saradoc said sternly. "Will you stop messing around with that knife of yours? Something bad is bound to happen."

        No response.

        "It's your cousin's birthday, Frodo," Saradoc stated. "He's personally asked me to tell you that he wishes for you to come out and join the rest of your family."

        "I don't care," Frodo replied. It hadn't even been a year since his parents drowned.

        "Frodo," Saradoc continued. "I know this may not seem very important to you, but Merry really wants to see you—"

        "Leave me alone," Frodo muttered. He continued to carve away at the bedpost.

        "Please, Frodo…"

        "Leave me alone."

        Saradoc was silent. The only sound that could be heard was the scraping of the penknife against wood.

        "Frodo," Saradoc piped up again, trying not to sound too upset. "Will you stop doing that?"

        "Go away." Frodo dug the blade further into the bedpost, sending larger chips off it falling to the floor. "Leave me alone."

        "Frodo," Saradoc repeated, now clearly angry. "Don't make me take that thing away from you."

        Frodo said nothing, still shaving the wood away.

        "Frodo!" Saradoc exclaimed irately. "Will you put that bloody knife away?!"

        Frodo suddenly stopped picking at the bedpost and casually threw a very chilling glance at Saradoc. Pulling the blade out of the wood, he rolled over off his belly and sat up. While holding the knife in one hand, he held it by its handle while he pushed his left hand cuff down. Much to Saradoc's horror, he calmly pressed its sharp edge into his wrist until it drew forth a red stream of blood. Frodo then tossed the bloodied knife onto the floor into front of his uncle's feet.

        "Here's your bloody knife," Frodo mumbled darkly. Saradoc was stricken with overwhelming shock.

        "Goddamn it, Frodo!" he screamed. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

        Frodo made no reply. He could feel his warm blood flowing out over his skin.

        "Are you insane?!" Saradoc cried, picking up the penknife. "Just what in God's name are you trying to prove by hurting yourself like that—"

        "Saradoc?" Esmerelda asked, suddenly appearing in the doorway. "Will you help me finish making the cake?"

        Saradoc froze. He turned around, quickly concealing the knife behind his back.

        "Just a minute, dear," he said, trying extremely hard not to yell at his wife. Esmerelda leaned sideways to try to get a glimpse of Frodo. 

        "In trouble again, eh?" she asked teasingly, not fully able to make out the hobbitlad through all the shadows. "And on your cousin's birthday? He's not going to be too keen about this."

        "Yes," Saradoc forced a chuckle. Stepping sideways, he blocked Frodo out of view from Esmerelda. "He always picks the worst days to be stubborn, doesn't he?" He let out another strained laugh. "Just like his father."

        Esmerelda smiled and laughed in agreement before turning to leave. Saradoc waited until he heard her footsteps diminish down the hallway. He then swiftly turned on his heels and stepped over to Frodo, his appearance looming as he stared coldly into the tweenager's eyes.

        "If it wasn't my son's birthday today," he growled menacingly through his teeth while leaning closer over Frodo, wagging the knife under his nose. "You would have a lot more than just a little cut to worry about."

        Saradoc tromped over to the door and flung it open.

        "And I'll let you deal with all the blood yourself. Don't come asking us for any bandages."

        Saradoc all but slammed the door, leaving Frodo alone in the cold dark again. For many minutes, Frodo laid on his back, grasping his wrist with his right hand. Blood seeped out from under his fingers onto the bed sheets to leave dark scarlet stains. Fearlessly and stoically he endured the biting pain. He could now prove he was stronger than his uncle thought he was. He could prove he was stronger than the rest of his family thought he was. He could prove he was stronger than what he thought he was less than a year ago, when he stood on the shore of the Brandywine, watching his parents drown in its waters.

        Suddenly, he felt his hand go weak and slowly slip off his bloody wrist. Tears, warm and wet, slowly rolled down his cheeks. He wept bitterly as he reached into the bed stand drawer again to retrieve the second penknife. While he held its blade deep into his left wrist, he struggled to keep his trembling hand from sending it in too far. The terrible scent of blood as it poured onto the bed sheets caused him to sob even harder. Hot, crimson rivulets ran down his soft, white skin, as did hate-filled tears. The knife gradually slipped out of his hand. Bunching the bed sheet up in his hand, he wrapped it around his wrist to stop the blood flow. His vision slowly hazed over and he passed out of his dizzying pain into empty, surrendering darkness. The following morning, he would scrub his hands clean until they were numb, and he would bury the bloodstained bed sheets in the backyard.

***

        "I had forgotten about all that until now," Frodo said after a few moments. He pulled his sleeve back over his wrist, back over his scars. "I tend to lose the true sense of those things over time."

        He looked over at Sam. He was silent the whole time he was listening to Frodo, but now his silence was even more intense with thought.

        "You're better now, right?" Sam asked softly with concern.

        "I hope so, Sam," Frodo answered. He slowly stood up. "Sometimes I just forget how hurt I really am."

        "Mister Frodo…"

        "You're a sweet boy, Sam. I hope you never hate yourself enough to do something like that."

        Frodo started walking away.

        "Come on," Frodo said, slightly weary. "It's getting late. Let's go home."

        Sam nodded silently and joined the elderhobbit. The whole time the two walked home, neither had said anything. It was close to dark when they returned to Bag Shot Row.

        "Here's your house," Frodo piped up, breaking the long quiet. "Good night, Sam."

        Sam stood beside the gate as he watched Frodo disappear back into Bag End. From behind, he heard the door to his own home open.

        "Sam-lad?" Hamfast asked, hobbling over to his son. "You better not stand out there all day. I'm not too happy about your up and leaving like that."

        "Sorry, Da," Sam replied. "I was out with Mister Frodo."

        Hamfast grumbled.

        "Just get inside, lad. It's almost time for supper."

        "Yes, Da."

        Sam followed behind his father as he stepped back into the smial. Before closing the door behind himself, Sam took one last look at Bag End.

        "Poor Mister Frodo," he murmured and then softly closed the large, round door.

---

Mistress-Samwise: Be sure you read that one part in chapter nine! And let me tell you again, I did_ not_ even have a single thought about this chapter when I wrote chapter nine! So… Blah-blah-blah-visit-my-website-blah-blah. Okay. I love advertising.


	15. Old Enemy

Mistress-Samwise: Yo! Happy Easter, evweybody! How has yours been going? I got anime and a Gollum! ^___^ My precious. Anywho… I've got a real treat for you! Let's see what happens if we make Frodo meet up with Lotho. This is going to be soooo much fun! Okay? Ready… Set… GO!

---

            As he leaned back in his chair, Frodo felt the breeze coming in from the open window. He smiled contently and ran his fingers through his hair. From behind the door came frantic knocking.

            "Mister Frodo! Mister Frodo!" Sam called excitedly. Frodo chuckled.

            "It's open. Come in."

            Sam opened the door and quickly dashed up to Frodo while waving a piece of parchment in the air.

            "Look, Mister Frodo!" he cried, handing the parchment to Frodo. "It's the first verse of the Lay of Luthien!"

            "Well, let's see…" Frodo examined Sam's firm, careful script. Sure enough, his well-formed cursive had written out the extensive line of lyrics. Frodo smiled.

            "That's amazing, Sam," Frodo grinned beamingly. "Your script is getting along nicely."

            It had been two years since Sam first spelled out his name on slate, barely able to read at all. Now, he was ten years old and he was using ink and quill on parchment, reading at a brilliant pace. For many months, he had worked hard with Bilbo to learn how to write in script. Now each letter he wrote was full of skill and care. Even his father was impressed with his progress. But Sam was saving his father a big surprise. For his final test, Sam was going to write all of the Lay of Luthien in cursive, and then recite it to Hamfast.

            "Picking the Lay of Luthien as your final test is a lot to ask for, Sam," Frodo pointed out. Are you sure you can write it all out?"

            "Yes, sir!" Sam replied confidently while blushing. "Wait until my Gaffer sees it when I'm finished!"

            "He's going to be so proud of you, just like I am," Frodo stated. Sam blushed even brighter.

            "Thank you, sir," Sam mumbled, shuffling in place. Frodo chuckled.

            "Well, you've been working hard all morning, so I think you've earned a break."

            Before leaving the room, Frodo pocketed a fistful of coins from his saved-up allowance. It had been two years since he started earning an allowance, not to mention a return to his Brandy hall stash, and it all had piled up nicely.

            "So, Sam," Frodo said while they were strolling outside, the sun shining momentarily before disappearing behind a thick cloud. "How do you feel about going to the market?"

            "Where you're going is where I'm going, sir," Sam replied.

            "I figured you'd say that," Frodo added. He let out a loud sigh. "Why do I even bother?"

            Sam blinked.

            "What are we going to do at the market, Mister Frodo?" Sam asked. Frodo grinned.

            "You'll see."

            Sam was silent with curiosity while he continued to follow behind Frodo. Once they reached the market, Frodo pulled out all his money and looked it over.

            "Hmm… A bit more than expected," Frodo mumbled to himself. "Here." He handed a coin to Sam. "Why don't you go buy something you like while I finish some business?"

            Sam stared wide-eyed at the coin, then at Frodo as he walked away into the crowd. He stood there holding the coin until Frodo came back many minutes later, a package in his hands.

            "Oh, Sam," Frodo groaned. "Don't you know how to enjoy yourself?"

            Sam then looked ashamedly at the money in his palm and he tried to hand it back to Frodo. The elderhobbit gave an exaggerated jump backwards, as if in recoil.

            "No! You keep it, you keep it!" 

            Sam hurriedly stuffed the coin into his pocket. Frodo laughed.

            "Relax, Sam," he chuckled while wrapping an arm around the hobbitlad. "I've got something else you might like."

            Frodo handed the package he was holding to Sam. Sam looked at it and Frodo in slight confusion.

            "F-For me, sir?" Sam asked timidly.

            "Yes," Frodo replied, smiling. "Open it."

            Sam was reluctant at first. The package was small, but fairly heavy. He looked up at Frodo again. The elderhobbit's blue eyes were shining brightly as he smiled warmly. Sam carefully tore away the paper and opened the box. Inside was a deep indigo crystal inkwell.

            "Mister Frodo!" Sam gasped as he took it out to examine it in the sunlight. "I-It's for me?"

            "Yes, Sam," Frodo answered, smiling. "Look… See those Elvish characters engraved on it? It stands for your name."

            Sam looked even more surprised and taken-back.

            "Oh, sir!" he cried, blushing. "T-There's no way I can accept this!"

            "Please," Frodo shook his head. "It's a gift. You've earned it." He smiled wryly. "But if you don't want it, then I suppose I can take it back…"

            "No, Mister Frodo!" Sam exclaimed. "I like it very much." He embraced the elderhobbit. "Thank you, sir."

            "That's quite alright," Frodo grinned and squeezed Sam. "I'm glad you like it. I placed the order for it weeks ago. I wanted to make sure they got the Elvish right. It's for my best friend, after all."

            "Oh, Mister Frodo!"  Sam squeaked. "Thank you so much!"

            "What do you say we go home and try that out right now?" Frodo proposed. Sam nodded his head eagerly. While they both were returning to Bag End, Sam idly fiddled with the inkwell in his pocket, along with the coin. He silently wondered over the display of friendship Frodo had showed and was not certain what to think of it. Never before had anyone other than his family show so much friendliness and concern to him. From the moment he met Frodo two years before, Sam had known that he was different.

            Just then, Sam's thoughts were interrupted as Frodo suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.

            "Wait," Frodo said while stopping Sam at his side. He was staring ahead intently.

            "Damn it," he muttered under his breath. "It's Lotho."

            Sure enough, just up at the side of the road was Lotho Sackville-Baggins, quietly smoking on a pipe while reclining against a fencepost.

            "What the hell is he doing here?" Frodo grumbled. He looked over at Sam. "I'm sorry about the swearing, but it's an impulse with Lotho."

            "Lotho?" Sam inquired. "My brothers told me about him. They really don't like him."

            "And I don't blame them," Frodo replied. "Those Sackville-Bagginses have been after Bag End ever since Bilbo returned from his adventure nearly fifty years ago." He paused. "Plus, I haven't had a good history with Lotho in particular."

            "He's started fights with my brothers before," Sam said.

            "Me too," Frodo added with a sneer. "It doesn't matter who it is to him, just as long as he gets to be the one left standing." He shuddered. "And I've learned that the hard way."

            Sam was just about to say something when he was interrupted.

            "Hey, Baggins!" Lotho called from up the road. "If you have something to say to me, then do so. Stop talking behind my back like some gossipy lass."

            Frodo growled.

            "Bug off, Lotho!" He turned to Sam. "Let's go. I don't want to waste my breath on him."

            Sam nodded professionally and they started off again, this time at a much faster pace. Before passing him up, Frodo slipped Lotho a snide gaze. Lotho let out a piqued laugh.

            "Pathetic, Baggins," Lotho commented. He smirked. "I see you've lowered yourself yet again. Someone from my own family babysitting a Gamgee… Disappointing."

            Frodo came to a dead halt and whipped himself around.

            "You leave him alone, Lotho!"  Frodo yelled. "I guess I am right… You'll pick on anybody, including ten year-old boys."

            "Who said I wanted to fight with him?" Lotho asked. "Stop jumping to conclusions, you silly fool." Frodo clenched his fists at his sides.

            "Sam," he said through his teeth. "It would be best if you continued on home."

            "Mister Frodo—"

            "Go home, Sam."

            Sam mumbled and nodded his head in obedience before scampering off. Frodo waited until Sam disappeared around the corner of the road. He let out another growl and turned to face Lotho.

            "What the hell are you doing here, Lotho?"

            "I should be the one asking that," Lotho replied. He idly tapped the ashes out of his pipe and placed it back into his vest pocket.

            "It's been a while, Baggins…" Lotho stepped up to Frodo and looked him over. "You're still the skinny, little hobbitlad that was carted away from Brandy Hall several years ago."

            Frodo said nothing, but gave Lotho an even sharper gaze.

            "And about that," Lotho continued. "It's funny… The only reason you're even here is because of your… unfortunate anger problem." He laughed cuttingly. "And to think we left on such bad terms. I hardly think punching me in the face and then trying to strangle me is a way to say good-bye to your cousin."

            Sam, who had been hiding behind the corner listening to the conversation the whole time, let out a small gasp of surprise. All of this came as a shock to him. He had never completely known why Frodo had come to live at Bag End, even with the two years he had been here. Frodo had been one of the nicest, kindest persons Sam ever knew. What was this dark side to Frodo and was it really the reason he had to leave his family at Brandy Hall?

            "You were asking for it!" Frodo snapped.

            "Be that as it may," Lotho answered coolly. "It still was a mistake on your part. Something your parents would definitely not approve of."

            "You leave my parents out of this," Frodo growled darkly, his hand flying out and grabbing Lotho by the shirt collar. It was like Lotho to play such cheap moves against Frodo like that.

            "Calm down, Baggins," Lotho said cynically. "We both know that fighting is not your strongest suit."

            "I'm not afraid of you," Frodo stated firmly, tightening his grasp on Lotho's shirt collar.

            "Of course you're not," Lotho replied. "Let's prove for Mommy and Daddy that we're not a frightened, little boy anymore and beat Lotho into a bloody pulp."

            Frodo yanked on Lotho's shirt collar, nearly ripping it off.

            "Damn it, Lotho…!" he snarled while staring daggers into Lotho. "If you say one more word about my parents…"

            "Don't worry, Baggins," Lotho answered, still composed. "I won't." He smirked crookedly. "And besides…" He slowly traced a finger down Frodo's smooth, white cheek. "We wouldn't want to mess up your soft, beautiful, nubile face, now would we?"

            Frodo's blue eyes suddenly flashed with violent rage. He instantly released his grip on Lotho and took a step back, clenching his fist.

            "You son of a bitch!"

            Frodo sent his fist flying straight into Lotho's jaw and sent him reeling backwards. Lotho hastily regained his footing, stood up straight, and held his fingers to the thin trickle of blood at his lip. He wiped it away and smiled amusedly while chuckling under his breath.

            "Stupid bastard…" 

Grabbing Frodo by the shoulders, he swiftly and powerfully kneed him in the stomach. Frodo instantly felt all the air rush out of him, and before he could let out a strangled cry, he wordlessly crumpled to his knees, grasping at his waist in pain. Sam let out a shocked yelp and charged out of his hiding place. 

            "Hey!" he shouted while dashing up to Lotho. "Leave Mister Frodo alone!"

            "And what are you going to do about it, Gamgee?" Lotho asked snidely, looking down on the hobbitlad.

            Sam said nothing, his anger silently boiling. Frodo weakly curled up, practically sick with pain as he struggled to keep his growing tears from streaming out onto his face. Lotho let out a cruel chuckle.

            "If I were you," he said to Sam. "I wouldn't be friends with somebody so… angry."

            Lotho then stepped over the pain-ridden ball that was Frodo and strolled off casually, his hands in his pockets. Before he reached the corner of the road, he turned around one last time.

            "Oh, and one more thing," Lotho added. "I'm so sorry about that, Baggins… I truly am. But I was raised not to hit girls." He walked off again. "Heh heh…So long, chumps."

            Sam watched in contained hatred as Lotho disappeared around the corner. Suddenly remembering his master, he kneeled over to Frodo, helping him up off the ground.

            "Mister Frodo!" Sam cried. "Are you alright?"

            "Sam…" Frodo whimpered faintly, tears now flowing freely down his face. He coughed and grimaced in pain. "I thought… I told you to go home…"

            "I didn't want to leave you alone with that creep!" Sam replied. "I knew he was going to do something bad to you!"

            "You could have gotten hurt yourself…"

            Sam tried to assist Frodo in standing up, but Frodo just shook his head.

            "No, Sam…" he said while struggling to lift himself up. "Don't help me… Don't even come near me." 

            Sam furrowed his brow in worry and slowly stepped back. Frodo got to his legs and hobbled over to the fence, collapsing onto the fencepost. He dug his nails into it and painfully gasped for air.

            "Mister Frodo…" Sam squeaked while placing a hand on Frodo's shoulder.

            "Go home, Sam," Frodo replied weakly but firmly. "Leave me alone."

            Sam silently frowned and reluctantly turned away, leaving Frodo hanging onto the fencepost. Frodo heard Sam's footsteps in the dirt grow further and further away until he heard nothing but his own weak panting. Tears ran hot down his face and he clenched his jaw in anger.

            "God damn it…"

---

Mistress-Samwise: Ooo. Fun. But the only problem is that the next chapter I have is a little… ify. If I post it, I will be very worried about the rating for this story. *_nervous grumble_* Ohhhh… But it's very important in keeping the plot going! I don't know how else to set off the chain of events that I have laid out… Maybe I'll think of something…

Oh, and by the way, I might be posting another story soon. Keep a look-out for that.


	16. Rich Drunk

Mistress-Samwise: On second thought, I'm not going to change anything with this chapter. But I do think I'm taking a risk with it, though. I'm prayin' to whatever it is I pray to that no uppity prick or some poor, sickly little thing that shouldn't even be here at ff.net comes by and reads this, because that would mean I'm done for. *sigh* But I know my loyal reviewers and readers won't kill me… Right?

---

            It was evening time. Instead of returning home, Frodo had left to spend his time (and remainder of his money) at _The Green Dragon_ to nurse his injured pride and drown his sorrows in cheap ale.

            "Bloody Lotho…" he muttered before taking another swig of ale. He wasn't much of a drinker, barely having more than a glass of wine, but this was his fourth mug, and he still had a lot of money left.

            _I can't believe I was beaten by that bleeding son of a bitch… And in front of Sam. I knew I wouldn't be able to keep him from knowing about my anger for long… I just hoped he wouldn't be another person to get hurt by it…_

            He was just about to buy another ale when he heard a voice speak to him. It took him a while to recognize it as Ted Sandyman's.

            "Hello there, Frodo," Ted stated while sitting down next to Frodo.

            "Hmm? What is it, Sandyman?" Frodo asked drowsily. Normally, he would be just about as averse about Ted Sandyman as he would be Lotho, but, currently, his judgment was considerably impaired.

            "Not doing too well, eh?" Ted inquired, smiling wryly. "It's not everyday Frodo Baggins comes here to get drunk."

            "Leave me alone," Frodo replied.

            "Oh, come now! Is that how you treat a friend who's trying to help you?"

            "Since when were you my friend?"

            Ted laughed.

            "I don't think drinking is your thing, Frodo. Maybe you would like something a little different."

            "What are you talking about?"

            Ted looked around for a moment and then produced a folded-up piece off paper.

            "I visited Bree recently, and while down there, I picked up a little bit of this," Ted said while handing the piece of paper to Frodo. The inebriated hobbit stared at it groggily.

            "Mmm? What's this?" 

            "Well… Open it."

            Frodo slowly unfolded the piece of paper. Inside was a fine, gray powder, around a tablespoon. He looked at it from under half-open eyelids, slightly confused.

            "They make this stuff from poppies," Ted added with a grin. Frodo took some between his fingers and rolled it around.

            "You mean those little, red flower things?" Frodo asked, letting the powder trickle back onto the paper.

            "The same," Ted answered. "And do you know what you're supposed to do with it?"

            Frodo shook his head.

            "Get this…" Ted leaned closer to Frodo. "You're supposed to smoke it!"

            "Smoke it?" 

            "Yes. You just put it into your pipe and smoke it just like you do pipeweed."

            "Then what's so different about it?"

            "Well… I haven't quite had the opportunity to try it out for myself, but the Men I bought it from told me about it. First, you have to put it in a pipe and light it, being sure you don't let too much of it burn away. Then, instead of smoking it the regular way, you have to breathe it all in."

            "You have to breathe it in?" Frodo inquired, his eyes widening. "Why do you have to do that?"

            "They said it's supposed to make you feel all light-headed, like you're not even feeling anything at all."

            Frodo let out a small chuckle.

            "Huh… That would be nice…"

            Ted smirked.

            "Is that so?" he asked. "Would you… like to buy it?"

            "Why not?" Frodo indiscriminately pulled out the rest of his money and placed it on the table. "Bilbo wouldn't be too keen if he found out I spent _all_ my money on ale."

            Ted laughed amusedly while sweeping the money into his palm.

            "Well, I wouldn't tell him about this either, if I were you."

            Frodo nodded his head and turned back to his ale, taking another long swig. Ted stood up to leave Frodo to his drink.

            "Heh…" Ted chuckled while walking away. He flicked one of the gold coins in the air and caught it without even looking. "There's nothing better than a rich drunk…" He smirked and shook his head, slipping the coin back into his pocket.

            Frodo took one last drink out of his mug and folded the paper up again. He placed it in his pocket before standing up from his seat. After s few stumbles, he managed to find his way home again. Silently, he entered in through the front door and crept past Bilbo's room before stepping into his own. He softly closed the door behind himself, letting out sigh of relief. Stepping over to the window, he threw it open, letting the breeze blow past the curtains and the strong moonlight spill in. It was a fairly cold October night with swift winds blowing large clouds over the Shire. The weather had been drier than usual: it hadn't rained in weeks and now huge thunderheads were just rolling in. Just earlier that day, Hamfast had been complaining about the dying flowers.

            But Frodo would soon forget about those annoying memories. Reaching into his desk drawer, he pulled out a long, wooden box. In it was his pipe that he got as a birthday present two years ago. He drew it out, along with the pouch containing the flint and steel, and set them on his desk before retrieving the piece of paper from his pocket. Slowly, he opened it and emptied half of its contents into his pipe. Then he carefully lit the inside of the pipe's bowl with the flint and steel, the little sparks spraying out into the air. There was a brief flame before he blew it out, letting it smolder until smoke rose from it in visible wisps.  He could smell the strong, fragrant aroma floating in the air. It was a peculiar scent. He then suddenly remembered what he had to do.

            Holding the pipe delicately in his fingers, he placed it up to his lips and drew in his breath. He felt the smoke rush in past his throat to his lungs, and it stung. He let out a stifled cough, silently hacking until he could get his breath again. After briskly shaking his head, he carefully took another smoke off the pipe. Breathing out again, he instantly felt a small shiver run up his spine, leaving a soft numbness in its wake. He reclined against the wall and set the pipe to his lips again. This time, he breathed in a bit slower, allowing the smoke to seep into his lungs. The numbing sensation spread over his body and replaced the buzz left behind from all the alcohol he drank. Several more times he repeated this, each time feeling his body go more and more numb with pleasure. Also feeling a bit more brave, he raised the pipe to his lips and took a slow, long drag. Immediately, he was hit by an overwhelming sensation of ecstasy and dizziness. His body shuddered intensely. He felt his knees suddenly go weak and he slowly slid down the wall to the floor. Still tightly gripping the pipe, he weakly placed it between his dry lips and greedily sucked in another breath. Now he could feel nothing but the dull tingle of euphoria that coursed to every corner of his body. The pipe slowly slipped out of his fingers onto the hard, wood floor and he slumped over. Darkness clouded his vision. One last shiver of pleasure shot through him before he passed out cold, the pipe still smoldering beside him.

---

Mistress-Samwise: Yeah. Don't hurt me, please. But, then again… I could be overacting… Nah. I'm going to be PARANOID. Freaking paranoid, at that. *_looks around nervously, then dives for a shadowy corner_* Eeee… They're out to get meeeeeee… My only friend is my new Cowboy Bebop DVD. *_cuddles DVD_* Don't worry, I'll find us a way out, even if it is in pieces…


	17. The Angel From His Dreams

It'sa all gotta come to a head, yo.

This is the first part of the end. Yes. Soon, Jaded will be completed. But not before I have it go out with a couple of bangs.

I have had this in the works for… around eight months. This chapter alone. You see, it's actually supposed to be one huge chapter (it's proving to be over 7,000 words, and it's not done yet). But for safety's sake, I'm splitting it up.

Aemilia Rose, Hatshepsut: Pharaoh of Kemet, Blue Jedi Hobbit 009, and Samwise the Brave, thank you for your reviews last chapter. I doubt any of you care about this story anymore. But I do. That's why I'm continuing, after all this time.

So, I say… Enjoy this chapter, but pay careful attention.

---

The first thing Frodo felt when he came-to the following morning was pain. His head was pounding. On top of that, he had stayed on the frigid, hard floor the whole night. Then he felt coldness. Weakly, he lifted his head up to see that the window had remained open the entire time, letting the freezing air in. The sunlight stabbed mercilessly at his dry, bloodshot eyes and he stumbled over to the window to close it. He swiftly drew the curtain over the glass and the room was comfortably dark again. Exhausted, he threw himself onto his bed. An even stronger pain throbbed in his head.

            "Ohhh…" he groaned weakly, clasping his pillow around his head. While he had his face stuffed in his pillow, he tried to recollect what he had done the previous evening. Then it all suddenly came back to him. He let out another groan, much louder, and this time, full of anger.

            "Ah, damn it—" Suddenly, his stomach lurched and he nearly went sick. Last night's events were having some very serious repercussions, and he was having some doubts about his decisions. Lying face down in a pillow when you're just about to be sick was not his idea of fun, and that's not even counting his terrible headache, sore body, and a whole list of other ailments. Luckily for him, it was very early in the morning, so he would not have to deal with Bilbo for another hour or so.

            The rigorously uneasy task of going across the room to the door made Frodo situation even harder. Even though the curtains were shut, there was still too much light for his liking. He struggled to grasp a hold of the doorknob under his numb fingers. But he managed to turn it well enough to let the door swing open out into the hallway. From there, he staggered to the bathroom to relieve himself of his jumpy stomach. Painful minutes past, and he was finished with the unpleasant task. Next, he sought out the cellar. Even though it was cold, it was also very, very dark and quiet, the perfect place for him to finish riding out his hangover.

            He picked up a quilt off of the living room couch before going back through the kitchen into the cellar, slowly creeping in the nearly pitch-black darkness. Finding a comfortable spot, he slid to his knees, wrapped the quilt tightly about himself, and waited patiently for his headache to die down. While he sat slumped against the cold cellar wall, he felt like curling up into a little ball and just dying. This was the worst he ever felt in his life, not only because he hung-over and sickeningly ill, but also because he felt like the lowliest, angriest son of a bitch he could ever imagine to exist. He was weak, and a coward, and not fit to stay in such a nice house as Bag End. The Brandybucks were right for sending him away; his anger, let alone mere presence, was too destructive… for not only others, but also for himself.

            There were so many emotions whirling around in his hazy mind, all seeming to fight over the responsibility for his situation. There was his anger, claiming it was all Lotho's fault. Self-hatred declared it entirely Frodo's doing. Sorrow, helplessness, and self-pity only mourned over the depression he was in, refusing to take any of the blame. But, above all, weakness bore the brunt of the crushing burden. Failure at the hands of himself and then his second-worst enemy, Lotho. Failure in front of Sam, the one who looked up to him like his older brother, even. The disappointment Sam must have felt to see his best friend fall in front of him, realizing that the façade of unfaltering strength and benevolence Frodo donned could shatter as easily as glass. Sam's heart must have broke to see this. Frodo couldn't stand to hurt him so.

            Fifteen minutes of undisturbed dead silence passed. He hugged the quilt closer. His fingers gripped at the tightly sewn seams of the patches. Some patches were wool, others flannel and linen. Then, he brushed his fingertips over a fine silk patch. Memories flooded to him like the tears in his eyes. The all-too-familiar cloth belonged to a shirt of his father's. They were roughhousing outside Brandy Hall and it tore off. Rather than punishing Frodo, Drogo instead made him take the tattered shirt to his mother, who was putting together a quilt that she had been working on since the previous winter. Skillfully, she incorporated the shirt into the quilt, spreading the pieces out over the entire piece. It wouldn't be until Yule that he would see the quit complete and finished, when he received it as a loving gift from his own mother. All this happened when he was only seven years old, seventeen years ago.

            Just then, he realized he had been crying the whole time while he was reminiscing. He was reluctantly angry as he brushed them away with the quilt border. Still, the sorrow clung to the mist in his eyes, and he allowed the tears to roll down his face. This sort of sadness was the kind that hurt the deepest; it wasn't shallow like his self-pity or out-of-control like his rage, but overwhelming and mournful. This was the kind of misery that he often felt as a small child back at Buckland… the kind that left him feeling small and helpless, like there was nothing he could do in the whole world. There was also a sickening sense of weakness, like the exhaustion after a fierce struggle and then the surrender… the numbing, peaceful surrender to oblivion, where there was no need and nothing against in which to struggle.

            While huddling compactly under the quilt, Frodo remembered how he used to wake up laying like that in his bed back in Brandy Hall. The summers were hot and balmy to the point of sleep-inducing, and the young Frodo would go to bed early in the evening. The windows to his room were wide open, the curtains drawn back to reveal the twilight peeking over the tall hedges that surrounded the massive smial. He would lay on his bed, drowsy and damp in the humid heat, his nightshirt half unbuttoned, and yet he'd still be under the quilt his mother made him. He always liked sleeping with it, no matter what the temperature was. He always felt safe, comfortable, and close with it when he had it wrapped about his shoulders. In the summer, though, it was only safe and close.

            With the quilt bound around him, he would then wait for the humid lethargy of his sleepiness turn into the slumber he desired. So, he would fall asleep to the dark, hypnotic thrumming of the cicada songs, the high buzzing suddenly drop to a low hum, then diminish, only to start the same chorus again. If he listened closely, beneath the chirping cicadas, he could hear a different sound drifting in from the Old Forest; almost like the trees themselves were joining in the lazy evening melody. All this, combined with the sultry heat, lured him off into often-perturbed sleep.

            One reason his mother always chided him about sleeping with the quilt during the summer was that the heat always gave him bad dreams in the night. They were far from nightmares, but they still had an unsettling feeling to them, as if they were good dreams that had become warped and distorted. They were frustrating, unnerving dreams that made him feel stuck and confused. In them, he didn't know whether he wanted to burst out in vexation or lie down and cry.

            The dream he had that night was one he still remembered vividly for the rest of his life. He was lost… lost in a dark forest, perhaps the Old Forest even, and he was looking for his parents. They had gone on a stroll outside Brandy Hall, and his parents excitedly recommended taking a shortcut through the woods. Frodo was reluctant, but followed anyway. They were his parents, after all. So, they took a small dirt path into the forest, trailing deeper and deeper until the tangled branches of the trees choked off all the light. Frodo then started to panic, and before he knew it, both of his parents had disappeared. Now, he was frantically calling out their names, trying to find them, and fast becoming scared and frustrated. He had the feeling that they were not in danger; he knew that. But he missed them… sorely, and he wanted to go back home to eat the muffins Aunt Esmerelda had baked.

            "Come on!" he shouted into the shadows, nearly weeping now. "It's time to go home now! I want to have a muffin before they're cold!" It was important that he found his parents, because he could never finish his muffin by himself (Auntie always made them very, very big), so Daddy would help him finish it.

            "Please!" he cried again. "We're going to be in a lot of trouble if we don't get home soon…"

            There came no response from the surrounding darkness. The terrible feeling of helplessness set over him, and he sat down on the musty leaf floor and cried. He could feel the crushing weight of his sorrow on his chest, right on the center of his breastbone.

            "Mommy… Daddy…" he whimpered, sniffling. "I don't wanna get in trouble…"

            Suddenly, he felt his sadness slowly turn into a different feeling; one more uneasy and nervous. It was nearly a sense of overwhelming fear, but something told him, a voice heard by his soul's ear, that he didn't need to be afraid, because the light will show you the way back home. He turned around in the direction of the voice. Standing with his hands in his pockets was a hobbit. Frodo could tell he was a grown-up by the way he dressed; a light, light cream-colored suit, almost completely white, with a weskit and a jacket and even a little bowtie. This seemed to contrast his deep skin color and russet hair, with curls that came up under his cheekbones and one that stuck up at his temple. A warm smile set on his lips, and his chestnut eyes seemed unfathomable. And, spanning from his broad shoulders, were a pair of glowing, immaculate feather wings.

            Frodo, as he gazed at this, felt a sudden sense of fear and awe. Overwhelmed with indescribable emotion, he wept uncontrollably. He curled into a tight ball to brace himself against his shuddering sobs.

            "P-Please..." he hiccupped while violently shaking his head. "Please don't get mad at me!" He gasped for air as he choked on his own tears. "I didn't-- I didn't do anything wrong..."

            Again, the elderhobbit softly reassured him to not be afraid, and that my love will keep you safe. The light will lead you back if you let it into your heart. Let it become a part of you. There is no need to be scared of it. My love will then protect the light in your heart and you never become lost in the darkness again.

            Frodo felt his sorrow diminish and disappear like smoke in the wind. He stood up and timidly approached the winged hobbit. Now, Frodo could tell that he wasn't so much of a hobbit as he was a being... something that was, has been, and always will be. Frodo looked up at the tall being in front of him. Trying to look into its eyes, he felt a deep, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he trembled in fear. The being simply looked back and smiled. There is nothing to be afraid of, beloved.

            It took Frodo a few tries to speak to it. "C-Can you take me home?" The being smiled softly, saying nothing, and kneeled down in front of the hobbitlad. It folded its majestic wings behind its back and clasped Frodo's small hands within its own. You must find your own way home. But do not be scared. Trust in your own strength and help the light inside you guide you back home. My love will always protect you, my beloved.

            Frodo nodded his head wearily and gripped at the being. "I know… I know…" His voice began to waver and he broke off into soft weeps, squeezing the being even tighter. "I love you, too…" While in those strong, caring arms, he felt the safest he ever had in his life. The smooth, white cloth of its jacket pressed against his face slowly became wet with his tears. He could feel its fingers stroking his hair reassuringly before it gently pulled him away. You should leave now. Do not linger in the shadows, love.

            With silent and reverent obedience, Frodo picked himself up off the ground. It stood up, too, and placed its hand on Frodo's shoulder one last time. Remember… I am in you, always. You shall never be truly alone. I am grateful to share your soul with you, my beloved.

            Frodo did not know what it was talking about, but he felt a switch in the back of his mind turn on, and everything was at peace. With a sniffle, Frodo took one last look at the angel's ethereal face and turned around. Now, he was suddenly endowed with strong confidence. The forest's creeping darkness seemed to subside as he walked back up the path. He felt as if he was scaring it all away.

            "I need to go back home," he told himself. And he did. He couldn't remember if his met his parents again or not.

            By this time, Frodo had grown very upset and he tugged roughly at the quilt. Why was he remembering all this now? The strange being with wings… He felt painfully ashamed.

            His voice was no more than a breathy whisper. "I'm… still in the dark."

Still in the shadows… 

            New stress brought on new illness. All this thought had his head pounding again, as well as a deepening sensation in his empty stomach. Pain seemed to be the only thing he gave to himself. With that, a dull anger diffused in with his headache, with underlying hate and disgust.

…Moping in the dark.

            It always tuned out like this. Darkness. A friend and enemy. He tiredly gave up on thought and obligation and allowed himself to pass out again into raw unconsciousness…

---

Stick around, I beg you. You won't regret it. And go to my website through my profile! Hee-hee-hee.


	18. You're the Only Thing You Have

Hey-hey-hey! I'm back with a bit more. But I have to tell you something important… I've been really, really, really busy on my new Big O website, and I haven't been writing Jaded lately. ^___^ But I'll be trying for you!

Thank you to my two wonderful regulars, Blue Jedi Hobbit 009 and Samwise the Brave. But a special thank-you to my new reviewer, Alisa Joy! Because of you, I decided to post this chapter. You should feel very proud of yourself.

During my writing of this chapter, I had learned in my English class of the nifty Freudian theory of Id, Ego, and Super Ego. I have slipped its concept in (more specifically, the destruction of Ego and Super Ego by Id), while at the same time also portraying myself through Frodo! I was freaking out when I realized I had done that… I've always had this inkling that I unconsciously expressed my personality through him. Now, I am certain I do.

O____O

Hrmmm. But you can read now! Huzzah!

---

The sun had risen, as it usually does, and was shining, though opaque, behind the thick mat of clouds that clung to the sky. The dreary atmosphere had kept everyone in bed longer than they knew. It wasn't until three hours after sunrise that Sam had been turned out to leave for Bag End.

         He looked up at the tense clouds. "Strange weather."

_Feels like it's goin' to rain but just won't._

         Sam continued on to the smial to find all but one of the windows still closed with curtains drawn. This signaled that the Baggins' were still asleep. He snuck up to the one window that was still open; the one to Frodo's room. Once he looked inside, he found it to be unoccupied. This was odd.

         Feeling a bit bold, he decided to enter the room through the window. Cautiously and quietly, he slid in and over the desk. The door to the room was open and the bed was still made. His eyebrows knit in confusion. By the far wall, there was a pipe and a small piece of paper. He shivered and stepped out of the cold room, soundlessly closing the heavy door to his master's room. The living room was much warmer.

         He sat on the couch and waited. Waited and waited in the gray gloom of the room for someone to wake up and tell him what he should do. Taking one of the pillows in his arms, he flopped over and sighed silently.

         He felt sleep coming on. "Where's Mister Frodo?" He recalled the image of Frodo clinging to the fencepost, cradling his body in pain while cursing under his breath. Then, Sam fell asleep. All was still again.

         Had it been far less cloudy than it was, one could tell by the sun's position in the sky that is was close to about ten o'clock. By this time, Bilbo was awake and fully dressed. He couldn't recall whether Frodo had come home last night or not, but he was relieved to see the door to his room shut. Bilbo did not feel like bothering the hobbitlad at that time, but rather, he was seeking out Sam instead. He knew that his little gardener always came early and could be found outside, busy at work. Today, however, seemed a day not even a Gamgee would like being out in.

         Bilbo was surprised to find Sam asleep on the couch, a pillow held tight against his chest. Even though Bilbo hadn't made a noise, Sam's eyes shot open and he sat straight up.

         "S-Sorry, sir!" Sam squeaked, his face glowing red. "I didn't mean to—"

         Bilbo laughed. "No, no, Sam. It's quite alright, I assure you. I wouldn't expect you to be outside today, anyway."

         "Da says the weather's been really batty," Sam stated, his eyes fixed on the bushes outside the window. "It's been so dry, but he says there's goin' to be a big storm very soon." He added, with a tinge of sadness, "All of your plants are dyin'." 

         "Yes, it is unfortunate, but that is why I have come to you now," Bilbo replied. "Why don't you go and see if you can save some of them, Sam? Some lovely blossoms would certainly help brighten up the place."

         Sam found this to be a capital idea; picking flowers was a far easier and much more enjoyable job than anything else he usually did. He eagerly left to do so, and Bilbo returned to his room. Again, the house fell silent.

         The door to the cellar slowly creaked open, and Frodo warily slinked out, clutching nervously at the bunched-up quilt in his arms. He had heard talking and prayed that it wasn't about him. To keep things safe, he snuck back to his bedroom. The weak sunlight that filtered into the smial was too powerful for Frodo. He winced and ache shot through his head as he reached blindly for the doorknob. Growling, he found the window to still be open, and he immediately closed it and drew the curtains. Regardless, feeble light glowed from behind the curtains. His eyes had become painful and wet with tears, and he found himself collapsed, kneeling with half his body sprawled out on his bed.

         Placing his cold, damp cheek against the bed sheets, he closed his eyes and just breathed, first through his nose, then through his mouth. Now, it was beginning to become hard for him to breathe. His entire waist had tensed up and he could feel it pressing into his body, choking off his lungs as he desperately drew air into them. The uneasy twinge of nausea bit and gnawed at his insides, but he was too exhausted to do anything about it. Sweat crept down his scalp and down his flushed face. His heavy breathing subsided as he grew more and more weary until sleep allowed him to escape from his dark sickness.

         Outside, Sam was cheerfully humming while he carefully rooted around through the flowerbeds. Many of the blooms were withered due to the recent, unusual drought. The typical harvest boon that was common to the Shire this time of year could not be expected this year. Still, Sam was glad to see some of the flowers still standing up. He tenderly cut their boughs and placed them in a basket.

         He looked around the garden. "What should I pick for Mister Frodo?" Standing up, he wandered around, trying to seek out the perfect present for his master. Then, he found it; the poppies were glowing brilliantly despite the overcast sky, their ethereal red blossoms seemingly untouched by the harsh weather.

         Sam grinned widely and dashed over to the flowers. He picked them especially carefully, minding each perfect petal and imagining the look on Mister Frodo's face when he finds this beautiful bouquet being presented to him. A smile grew on Sam's face again, and he took his precious find with him inside Bag End.

         Bilbo was in his study when he found Sam shuffling in.

          "Hello!" Bilbo stated as Sam stepped up next to the desk. "What's this?"

         Sam tried reaching for a scrap of paper on the desk. "Flowers… for Mister Frodo." He looked up at Bilbo beamingly. "I want to write him a tag, too."

         Bilbo smiled and handed Sam the paper, as well as the quill and ink. He watched Sam as he wrote "To: Mr. Frodo Baggins From: Sam Gamgee". It took Sam a few moments to fill it all out, for he was still relatively new to all this. When he finished, he grinned widely and gently blew on the ink to dry it.

          "Excellent work, Sam," Bilbo replied, patting the hobbitlad's shoulder. "I'm sure Frodo will be very pleased." He opened a drawer and drew out a small ribbon. "Here."

         "Thank you, sir!" Sam exclaimed as he tied the tag to the poppies. He held up the flowers for Bilbo to see. "Beautiful, aren't they, Mister Bilbo?"

         "You were with Frodo yesterday, correct?" Bilbo inquired. Sam's smile weakened a bit and he nodded. Bilbo continued, "I don't remember seeing him come in last night. I was wondering if you knew anything about this."

         By this time, Sam was looking very grave, but he said nothing.

         "Sam? What's the matter?" Bilbo grew worried. "Did something happen to Frodo?"

         Sam's mouth moved, but no words came out. "He… Uh…"

         "Do you know if he's in the house?" Bilbo asked quickly. Sam appeared terrified, but still could not say anything about how he last saw Frodo. Bilbo sensed this.

         "I must go find him!" he stated while rushing out of the room. Sam left his flowers on the desk and followed behind until they reached Frodo's bedroom. Bilbo all but threw open the door. There, he saw Frodo's body hunched over the bed, his face pressed against he bed sheets. Bilbo hastened over to his cousin's side. He carefully turned Frodo over and saw that his face was deep red. His eyes were closed, his dark eyelashes settled against his flushed cheeks. Even though he unconscious, he was trying desperately to breathe.

         "Frodo!" Bilbo cried. "Wake up!"

         "Mister Frodo!"

         Weakly, Frodo opened his eyes and drew in a deep breath. It seemed like he was going to say something, but was completely unable to. Instead, his eyes shined dully with dark emotion and he turned them to the ceiling, away from both Bilbo's and Sam's faces.

         "Frodo, my lad!" Bilbo exclaimed again. "What's wrong? Are you sick?"

         "Mister Frodo…"

         With much effort, Frodo spoke, "Oh, Sam…" He turned his head away and closed his eyes again. "I'm sorry…" Sam frowned sorrowfully.

         Bilbo didn't know what was happening. "What's going on? Why weren't you home last night?"

         Frodo felt a pang of dread shoot through his mind. His eyes opened and he nervously pulled his face away from the bed sheets.  He first looked into Sam's sad, brown eyes, then at Bilbo's worry-filled ones. Something inside of Frodo wanted him desperately to tell the truth about what he had done, but he was too overwhelmed with shame and fear to speak.

         For many wrenching moments, Bilbo stared at Frodo, waiting impatiently for a response. "Frodo…"

         The tweenager was so terrified, he hadn't even noticed the tear that rolled down his sallow cheek. Bilbo's eyebrows knitted in confusion.

         "Frodo-lad…?" he stated slowly. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

         Again, Frodo said nothing as another tear flooded out of his eye. All the while, Sam was painfully watching this, and seemed close to tears himself. Frodo noticed this and a new sorrow swept him.

         Bilbo pried his attention away from Frodo. "Sam," he said, trying not to sound too harsh. "Why don't you go finish finding those flowers?"

         Obediently, Sam nodded his head and gulped. He then discreetly left the room. Bilbo watched and waited for Sam to shut the door before he could speak again. Looking back down at Frodo, he saw that Frodo was now crying, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. His face was frowning with pain and his chest was heaving with stifled sobs.

         "Frodo! Frodo!" Bilbo pleaded, fraught, watching Frodo as he broke down further and further. "Please! Tell me what's wrong!"

         Frodo only replied with even more powerful wailing. Bilbo could not believe what he was seeing.

         "My lad! You must tell me what happened yesterday!"

         "Oh, no, Bilbo!" Frodo wept, turning his entire body away. He cried into the mattress, "No…! No…!" Now, he was quaking uncontrollably. The bed sheets were bunched up in his fists and he practically ripped at them as he tried dreadfully to hide his face and smother his sobs.

         Bilbo felt powerless. "Calm down! Oh, Frodo! Please! Stop this! You're worrying me!"

         Still, Frodo kept crying, heedless to his cousin's desperate pleas. He was already feeling sick, but now, his head was blazing with pain and his eyes stung mercilessly. Every last bit of his self-control was slipping away and was being replaced with madness; an agonizing mixture of sadness, anger, terror, and guilt. The bindings of his mind and soul were being torn apart by an innate darkness.

          "Oh, god!" Frodo gasped painfully, barely able to breathe anymore. "Oh, god!" He could sense a part of himself separating and breaking away. Now, it seemed, his being was in two… one piece, feral, terrible, and unconscious… the other, isolated, powerless, and fully self-aware. That one side watched in pure horror as the other wreaked havoc upon Frodo's mind. In its desolation, it did nothing to halt this. It only continued to look on in sick awe, and strongly wished for some sort of an end to all this. The essence of Frodo's mind was being destructed and nothing inside of him did anything to stop it.

         Panic gripped at Bilbo as he struggled to reach Frodo. This was one of the few, rare moments in his life that he ever felt truly afraid. "Frodo! Will you please, for the love of God…" His hand hovered over Frodo's slouched and trembling shoulder, too scared to even touch him. "Stop all this madness…"

         Unbeknownst to neither Frodo nor Bilbo, Sam was outside the room, at the end of the hall. He could hear Bilbo's fearful pleas drowned out by Frodo's insane howling. An overwhelming feeling of helplessness washed over him as he listened to his beloved master crying out in pain. Soon, tears began falling down his own face, and he wept bitterly for Frodo.

          "Oh, Mister Frodo!" the small hobbitlad exclaimed. "Please stop this!"

         Suddenly, Bilbo had burst out into the hallway and stomped out into the kitchen, completely ignoring Sam as he passed by him. Sam was shocked to find him return promptly with the kettle clenched tight in his fists. Nervously, Sam followed behind Bilbo to see what he was going to do. He plunged into the bedroom again and stood over Frodo's bowed and shivering form. And then, without any hesitation, Bilbo removed the lid from the kettle, flipped it over, and emptied all the ice-cold water out, right onto Frodo's head. Almost instantly, Frodo's maddened lamentation was quelled, and he choked and sputtered for a few moments. As the water poured down his face, rinsing the tears and sweat, he could feel his pain wash away, as well. All was tensely silent, save for the hard sound of Frodo's panting.

         Sam was wide-eyed with astonishment. Not even a moment ago, it seemed like nothing could have brought Frodo back. Now, he was returned, all of his senses having crashed down upon him like an avalanche. He looked as shocked as Sam, if not more so. Water dripped off of his dark curls, over his flushed cheeks, off of his trembling lip. His wet shirt clung to his heaving chest. Deep in his breast, his heart was still pounding wildly.

         The kettle fell out of Bilbo's hands and it clattered loudly upon the wooden floor. Bilbo suddenly dropped to his knees besides Frodo and took the soaked hobbitlad into his arms. "Oh, Frodo-lad! You scared the life out of me! Don't you ever act like that again! Oh, Frodo-lad!"

         Frodo was still too traumatized to realize what was happening. His eyes were unknowingly fixed on the wall ahead of him. For many moments, he did nothing and said nothing while Bilbo held him. He only concentrated on his breathing and his heartbeat. Then, something caught his attention. His eyes flitted across the room to the door, where he saw Sam cowering against the far wall in the hallway. The hobbitlad was sniffling softly, anxious tears rolling down his face.

         Closing his eyes, Frodo frowned sorrowfully. His voice was scarcely a whisper. "Sam."

         Bilbo looked over his shoulder and saw Sam. "I thought I told you to leave," he stated.

         "S-Sorry, M-Mister Bilbo, sir," Sam replied, unable to keep his voice from quivering. With that, he timidly left, sniffling as he went. Bilbo watched Sam disappear from sight. He looked at Frodo's face, which was dark with shame and misery.

         "Frodo-lad…" Bilbo said firmly yet softly. Frodo opened his eyes, uneasy, but could not bring himself to look at his cousin.

         "I don't know about you," Bilbo continued. "But I think you hurt little Samwise just now."

         Frodo said nothing and lowered his face even further. He could no longer muster any more tears.

         "You should be ashamed of yourself," Bilbo went on. "It was a terrible thing for you to lose control of yourself like that. Not only did you hurt yourself, but in doing so, Sam was scared to see you like that." He lifted up Frodo's face by his chin, but the hobbitlad did not open his eyes. "You are like a brother to him… You're his best friend." He paused for a moment. "You're his only friend, Frodo."

         Frodo apprehensively opened his eyes.

         Bilbo continued. "You know this to be true. But there's also something else. There's something neither of you will tell me, concerning yesterday, why you didn't come home last night. I would much rather hear everything from you than our poor, little gardener." He paused to let Frodo respond, but no answer came. Frodo had tensed up. "Please, Frodo. I need you to tell me what happened."

         For a moment, Frodo grappled with his thoughts. He then chose his answer. "Sam had… nothing to do with it."

         "But he knows _something_," Bilbo retorted. "What is it, Frodo? Tell me."

         Frodo knew he had to, at least, prove Sam's innocence. "We were out walking, and—" He sighed, aggravated. "We were out walking… and…"

         Bilbo frowned concernedly. "And what?"

         Frodo clenched his eyes shut. "And I… got into a fight with Lotho…"

         Bilbo said nothing. He despised the Sackville-Bagginsess as much as Frodo did. He also assumed that Frodo did not win the fight.

         "Sam went home after that," Frodo stated.

         "But that still doesn't explain why you came home so late last night," Bilbo pointed out firmly.

         Frodo's voice dropped. "After that… I went to The Green Dragon. And I—" He paused. He could not bring himself to lie fully. "And I spent the rest of my money there… Then… I came home sick, and you were already in bed. I—" He stopped short.

         Bilbo was dreadfully silent. He had his head in his hand and his eyes were closed. Frodo was not going to tell Bilbo what else he had done, but now it was rendered impossible. He felt worse than wretched, to say the least.

         "What am I to do, Frodo?" Bilbo said after the wrenching silence, sounding very desponded. "You seemed to be doing so well here. I had thought that… if I brought you to live here instead of Brandy Hall, you could learn to repair yourself after so much heartbreak and tragedy." He paused and nervously allowed his eyes to pass over Frodo. "But just when it seemed everything was alright, you tell me about all this, and now it's not anymore. You've… disappointed me, Frodo. And I can't imagine how little Sam is feeling right now."

         Frodo curled up tight against himself and he sneered as hot tears started to roll down his cheeks again.

         "It saddens me to think you've let yourself become like this," Bilbo continued. "Because… it seems to me that you refuse to take responsibility for yourself. You'll find that it takes a special kind of strength to keep yourself in order. And others will expect you to do so. If you don't, you will set yourself up for disappointment after disappointment, whether you mean to or not."

         He stepped over to the door and opened it. "Please, Frodo… Don't do that. The worst thing you could possibly do is come to hate yourself… Because, in the end, you're the only thing you have."

         With that, Bilbo disappeared out of the room. The door quietly clicked shut. Frodo threw himself upon his bed and wept. This time, it was out of true sorrow; sorrow for Bilbo and for Sam. He no longer had any for himself.

         "B-But you see… the problem is…"

_…I already hate myself._

         And what good is the love from others if you have none for yourself? Frodo thought of the angel from his dreams. Even if it was just a dream, the deep sense of love he had felt coming from it seemed real... so painfully real. Now, he was afraid he'd never be able to regain that feeling again. He was afraid to be robbed of it, and be left with a lonely coldness that could never be filled. And when the time would come for everything to be over, he would have nothing-- no hope, no love, no self, and no one other.

         He was tired, so tired of it all already. What was there for him now? The idea of nothing was too painful to think about, so he set it aside and cried until it became meaningless. Then, he found himself standing up and walking over to the far wall. He knelt down and took the wooden pipe into his hand. Staring at it for a moment, he turned it upside down. A few stray ashes floated out and settled onto the floor. For some reason, he felt his stomach turn, and he leaned up with his back against the wall, clutching tightly at the pipe in his fist.

---

Awww… I have to do that, don't I? Ah, well. 

I am going to really busy this month! I'll try and write more, if I can. I pray you'll stick with me. 

TTFN.


	19. Who Are you, Mister Frodo

Chuka-cha-KAH! *_does crazy ninja moves_* Whooo-hah! Huttah! Aieee! Weee-ooo—

Oh. Hello. I'm sorta half-awake-on-a-school-night. Just ignore the ninja stuff.

Reviewers: Alisa Joy= And poor Sam. Oh. Yes. Indeed. And… I like the sound of that… "Glorious". Mwuh-hah-hah. Breon Briarwood= Ooo! First-timer! Thank you. Blue Jedi Hobbit 009= There is _nothing_ the Llama can do for him now… Samwise the Brave= Now, now. He's trying to get over it. Sort of.

Anywho!

I am here to tell you that… I have this new chapter! Now, lemme also tell you that, a long, long time ago, I could never have written this. But I decided to do what I did in the sake of… DRAMA! (drama-drama-drama…) What was it I did, silly-person-that-is-me?! I got Frodo to do something he could only do once, and Sam to say something I can only get him to say twice (the second time being in the next chapter). How intriguing. But **EXACTLY WHAT IT IS **is for you to find out… **NOW**!

---

         Sam was fast growing nervous. He could no longer think about the task he was meant to complete. Instead, all of his thoughts were on his master, and he eventually pried himself away from the withering gardens and snuck back inside. Before he did anything else, he retrieved his bouquet of poppies from off of Bilbo's desk. Now, they seemed uselessly cheerful.

         The door to Frodo's room was shut. Timidly, Sam knocked.

         "Mister Frodo?" he forced himself to say.

         No reply. Sam waited a few tense moments, then slowly opened the door. At first, he couldn't see Mister Frodo anywhere in the room, but soon found him curled up against the wall with his head on his knees. He was holding a pipe in one of his hands.

         At first, neither hobbit did anything. Now that he was in the room, Sam had not an idea of what to say or do, and it seemed like Frodo didn't even notice that he was in the room. Sam anxiously grasped and tugged at his sleeve, the flowers dangling in his other hand. His mouth was sealed tight against the torrent of words that had begun to build up in his mind.

         Frodo did not stir. "…What?"

         Sam almost leapt in surprise. "Oh!" He then instantly forgot everything he was going to say. There was a long, heavy pause.

         It almost seemed like Frodo didn't want Sam to speak, but the little hobbitlad willed himself to anyway. "I… er, sir… I wanted to… to know how… you…" His words trickled out fruitlessly and disappeared into the air like smoke. Ominous silence came upon the room again.

         Frodo's thin voice sounded grating against the weighty silence. "I have done something very terrible, Sam."

         "…Sir…?"

         "There is no hope for me now," Frodo continued after a slight pause. "So just leave me alone."

         Sam frowned. "…Mister Frodo…" he whimpered. "Please don't say that."

         Frodo lifted his face from his knees. His eyes were dark and narrow with cynicism. "This is not your problem. Don't trouble yourself with me anymore." His gaze rested on the bright red flowers in Sam's hand. To him, they bore no purpose, and he drew himself away from them.

         "Why, Mister Frodo?" Sam inquired worriedly. "I-I don't know what you mean."

         Frodo found himself growing weary of the conversation. "You're just a boy, Sam… It's better if you don't."

         Sam was becoming frustrated. "Sir… Please… I don't know…"

         "I am lost, Sam. There is nothing."

         The last word of Frodo's sentence stung bitterly. Sam dug his fingers into the poppies' stems.

         "Why, Mister Frodo? Why are you doing this?"

         "Once living becomes nothing but pain, there is no way out of it."

         The sullen mood hanging in the air was becoming too much for Sam to handle. It had settled uncomfortably on him, trying to wrap itself around his mind and bury its roots in deep. But he would not allow its darkness to pull him down.

         "I don't understand, sir, why you're actin' like this." He frowned and his eyebrows knit together in desperate concern. "Don't you want to be happy?"

         With that statement, Frodo peered up at the little gardener again with dull eyes. The pursuit for happiness was too difficult for him to even perceive anymore. It was easier for him to give up and let his shadows consume him.

         "It's too late for me now."

         "But Mister Frodo," Sam replied, "It's never too late to be happy!"

         Frodo narrowed his eyes. "What would you know of it? Tell me, Sam… How would a little boy like you know of what I am going through?"

         This stinging reply left helplessly Sam tongue-tied. There seemed no way to get to Frodo.

         "I'm just tryin' to help," Sam stated, at a loss.

         Frodo's eyes were burning. "You are not helping me."

         Sam withered under Frodo's assail. "Oh, please, sir… Please, don't do this to me…" His voice was quivering. "There is nothin' else for me to do…"

         "There is nothing you can do."

         The little hobbitlad was getting desperate now. "There has got to be _somethin'_ I can do! You…" He stepped forward and gathered all his courage. "You won't let me help you!"

         "And what would you do?" Frodo suddenly snapped at Sam, practically yelling now. "What _could_ you do?" He was glaring at Sam through his narrow slits of eyes as he slowly climbed to his feet. Terrified, Sam inched away, trying to keep himself from breaking the flower stems in half.

         Frodo threw his arms up as he paced about, still gripping unconsciously at the pipe in his fist. "What is there? What can there possibly be anymore? From you… From Bilbo… From _me_?" He stopped and turned around sharply to face Sam. "Tell me!"

         Frodo's eyes flared bright with a fierce intensity as he stared down upon Sam. Poor, little Sam was practically quaking with fear now, his wide, brown eyes fixed on Frodo's cruel, blue ones. He was backing away, but Frodo only seemed to coming closer and closer.

         "You're nothing but a child, Samwise Gamgee," Frodo continued, nearly forcing Sam up against the wall. "So why? Why the hell do you think _you_ can help me?"

         Frodo's towering form blurred as Sam's eyes began to fill with tears. This all was too much for Sam to handle. His image of Frodo had already shattered, and now the hobbit that loomed over him was one he did not know.

         "Tell me, Sam," Frodo growled darkly. "I want to know." No answer. Sam stared back, overwhelmingly horrified, with shining, wet eyes. "Tell me… Now!"

         Sam flinched. "Mist' Frodo…" he whimpered pathetically. "P-Please… Don't do this t' me…"

         For a moment, Frodo glared contemptuously at the hobbitlad, eyeing his cowering form as it clung helplessly to the wall. He sneered with intense disgust, and then, at last, he spoke, his voice a hate-filled rumble in his throat.

         "There is nothing **_you_** can do."

         With that, Sam completely collapsed against the wall behind him and openly wept. "N-No!" he cried. "N-No, M-Mist' Frodo!" He gasped and struggled to stay standing on his quaking legs. "Don't—Don't you get mad at me, Mist' Frodo…" His throat was choked tight with his tears. "This 's…This 's all your own fault!"

         Wrath ripped through Frodo's mind like flames, and its fire consumed his piercing blue eyes.

         "Damn you!"

         Frodo's arm pulled back and he delivered a blinding slap across Sam's face. Without letting out so much as a single strangled squeak, he little hobbitlad instantly crumpled, utterly helpless, and skidded across the wooden floor like a rag doll. The poppies fell and spilled out all over. He was too traumatized to weep, and lied, soundless and motionless, upon the floor.

         Then, Frodo effortlessly pulled Sam right back up. "Ignorant, little boy!" he yelled again, gripping at Sam's collar. Sam suddenly became very heavy, and slipped right out of Frodo's hands. He knelt and bowed over weakly, his head hanging low for he wished not to see Frodo anymore.

         Frodo was frantically searching for something to say as he stood towering over Sam, but could draw up nothing. He hadn't expected what had happened to happen. It did, though, and he started to sense his insane anger slipping away. The small boy on the floor did not so much as move or whimper. Despite that, the pain of sorrow that emanated from him was so overwhelming that Frodo felt crushed by it.

         It was then that Sam spoke, his voice thick with sorrow. "W-Who are you, Mist' Frodo?"

         It felt as if Frodo was hit himself. Those words stung at him like poison, biting hard and deep, deep in his soul. He staggered backwards, away from Sam, away from his cloud of misery and the hurtful truth in his words. The two were at opposite ends of the room, each on different sides of a deeply-cloven rift.

         Sam then slowly climbed to his feet. He stood up firm and tall with an unwavering confidence, and stared at Frodo. His boyish face was grim, but his cheek glowed dreadfully red. Tears flowed out of his otherwise shallow and emotionless eyes. And when he spoke again, he no longer sounded like a child.

         "I hate you."

         With that, he ran out of the room and left Frodo to cling against the wall in pure, stunned daze. Everything had fallen apart, shattered completely, and now Frodo felt as if he was standing on nothing. As he stood over the deepening darkness, Sam's words were still ringing in his ears.

         He looked down at his hand and found his pipe still gripped tightly by his fingers. Intense fury suddenly built up. Taking the pipe with both hands, be bent it with all his might until it split into two with a splintery snap. Then, he rushed over to the window, threw it open, and whipped the pieces into the bushes. Suddenly, he peered over his shoulder at the floor, at the folded piece of paper lying next to the wall. An incredible flash of rage tore through his mind. Without any hesitation, he took the paper and held it out of the window, tearing it to tiny bits. Paper and dust floated away in the breeze.

         As the wicked substance disappeared out of his life, he remembered about the flowers that were strewn about on the floor. Slowly, he stooped over and picked up one of the blossoms between his fingers. The color in it seemed to be draining away before his eyes, like his very presence caused it to retreat. Burned into his mind was the image of Sam's face and the tears that streamed out of his lifeless, almost disturbingly lifeless, eyes over his wounded cheek. 

Then, without noticing, Frodo found himself squeezing the flower petals in his fist. When he realized what he was doing, he wrung at the blossom even harder, then with both of his hands. The plant twisted and died, leaving an oily, fragrant residue in his palms. He finished, opened his hands and stared at them. After a moment, he shut his eyes and wiped his hands on his pants.

         He let out a tired sigh. "I must go and find him." Frodo then left his room.

---

Chuka-cha-KAH! Hoot-hoot-hoot-moo-mah-mee-mo-moo! Chee-chee-koo-koo-kee!

Oh. Hello. Those weren't ninja moves. Just crazy noises.

Ah, yes. Hmm. How about that, uh, chapter? Oh, but don't go thanking me just yet! It gets better. But I just have to finish that chapter. Sigh. I don't know when I'll do that, though. Just give me some more time and it'll come.

Okay.


End file.
